


Through the Past, Darkly

by lithiumm



Series: The Poison Tree [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Abortion, Body Horror, Dark, Domestic Violence, Double Agents, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Content, Strong Female Characters, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithiumm/pseuds/lithiumm
Summary: "There is no absolute truth and no true love - only a plan of your own design and the players who make it happen." In 1943, two students met at Hogwarts and set a plan in motion that would change the course of history.





	1. I: Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Wizarding community circulates rumors of the Dark Lord's return, Albus Dumbledore makes a visit to Azkaban to release a curious prisoner.

[ ](https://ibb.co/iuVvoT)

 

Part I

I.  
Freedom  
[Azkaban Prison | August 1995]

* * *

 Azkaban prison, that hulking fortress of stone and solitude, braces itself against the pounding waves. A storm was raging outside, which almost prevents Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, from reaching the place without becoming soaked to the bone. Waiting in the small dark reception area for him is Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and a burly bailiff fumbling with a large ring of ancient iron keys. Fudge looks relieved at Dumbledore's arrival, but his smile is short-lived. Soon he's narrowing his eyes at the headmaster.

           

“You know Albus, the day will eventually come when you can't get exactly what you want whenever you ask for it.” Fudge's bitterness refuses to be masked.

           

“Oh this isn't about me, Cornelius. I'm sure you know the history of this case, the mishandling of evidence, the utter disregard of proper procedure...”

           

“Yes yes I've been informed...” Fudge says grumpily as they follow the bailiff up the stairwell. The rain lashes through the glassless windows, forming muddy puddles on the stone floors. Filthy place—lit by torches, whose flames were reflected in the pools at their feet creating the illusion of walking through fire. They turn down a long hallway lined with iron bars. Many of the prisoners are asleep, or just lying there, a few leer at Fudge and Dumbledore as they pass. They stop at a cell a little more than halfway to the end of the hall. Albus approaches the bars. The withered woman inside is motionless, staring at a point just over his shoulder.

           

“Miss Spektor? Victoria?” Dumbledore says, looking her straight in the eyes. No motion, no recognition. Again he says her name. Still nothing. He waves his hands, but her gaze does not follow. She's crouched on the ground, charcoal hair hanging limply to her knees. “We've come to talk with you. Have you got a moment?”

           

“Oh yeah?” The woman grunts softly, shifting her gaze ever so slightly. “I've got nothing but time. What's on your mind?” She inquires, still as a stone statue, her eyes dim in the flickering light. Albus sizes up the woman uneasily, apparently now doubting his plan. But he carries on.

           

“Your case was reopened due to mishandling of evidence and lack of proper criminal procedure.” Dumbledore reports. Spektor stares at him blankly. “And you've been found innocent. Or, well, evidence was insufficient to prove you guilty. However you prefer to look at it. At any rate, you're free to go.”

           

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” She spits, rising to her feet and dragging her shackled feet towards the bars that separate her from the two men. The chains cut deep groves in the dirt-caked floor.

           

“Seems like it to me.” Fudge sighs languidly, “But it is true. You are...innocent in the eyes of the court...We're releasing you into the custody of Albus Dumbledore, who will be your guardian until the court-appointed period of supervision elapses.”

           

Victoria Spektor looks from the portly Minister of Magic to the tall, silver-bearded Headmaster of Hogwarts. Whatever they were playing at doesn't matter too much to her, to be honest. All she can think about is that she's being given a second chance. Whether she deserves one is irrelevant.

           

“Albus, I think you're the one making a grave mistake here.” Fudge says.

           

“Perhaps I am.” Dumbledore motions for the bailiff to unlock Spektor's cell, and the shackles around her ankles. As soon as the chains drop to the floor she stretches her arms above her head in a great sweeping motion, as if awaking from a long sleep. After adjusting her grubby tunic, she walks stiffly from her cell and down the hall, flanked by Dumbledore and Fudge. Along the way the prisoners still locked away in their cells catcall, and in response she brazenly brandishes her middle finger, upon which is a gold ring with a black stone set in the center, glinting in the torchlight.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

From the North Sea to a sleepy London borough in the late August pre-dawn. A warm wind was stirring the hedgerows as Dumbledore and Victoria “V.” Spektor approached a shabby rowhouse. Barely a soul out. Not a light on in the other homes that line the incongruously well-kept streets. Albus taps the black painted door with his wand and it creaks open. Inside is damp, dark, and she follows him deep into the bowels of the place, the floorboards sighing under their careful footsteps. They descend a rickety set of stairs into the kitchen, and Albus puts the kettle on. The sun's just coming up, not that either of them would know it, being that there are no windows down there, and all the others in the place are hung with thick drapery. Spektor eases herself down into one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table. She was experiencing a bit of sensory overload. Having been chained to a wall for forty-some-odd years, you don't often get a change in scenery. Not to mention she’s still in mild shock as to her sudden change in luck, if you could call it that. While the kettle boils, Albus is busying himself at the fire, placing a fresh log on the pile and lighting it with a minuscule flick of his wand. She takes a long, deep breath, filling her lungs with steam and woodsmoke.

           

“What am I supposed to do now?” Spektor abruptly speaks, causing Dumbledore to jump. Her voice is gravelly, and much harsher than he remembers. She coughs into her palm.

           

“Well, since the court has appointed me your guardian, I thought it might be a good idea for you to fill one of the vacant posts at Hogwarts…” There’s a deep, wide silence between them, during which Spektor blinks at the old man as if this is just another element of the elaborate joke she’s found herself the butt of. “I thought you could be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.” Dumbledore says, sitting down across from her after setting down a teapot and two cups. She can't help but laugh. It's colder, dryer, than he remembers.

           

“Excuse me, but are you _mad_?” She says, her voice cracking. “I've been locked up for a lifetime in Azkaban...and you're going to have me...teach kids… Defense Against the Dark Arts of all things?”

           

“I trust you're an expert on the subject.” Dumbledore says pleasantly.

           

“How can one be an expert when they’ve spent the majority of their lives in prison? You seem to forget I was arrested when I was…how old…nineteen? I…don’t remember…” She frowns, realizing as well that she doesn’t know how old she is currently. “What are you playing at?” She narrows her eyes.

           

“In these difficult and dangerous times, it's important to have the best faculty instructing our students, to prepare them adequately for what they will face...” Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea with a small silver spoon. “Your expertise would be invaluable for our cause.”

           

“Naturally.” She twists the ring on her middle finger, a nervous tick, and looks down in her lap. “You’ve got no other options, I take it? At the end of your rope, so to speak?”

           

“Oh I wouldn't say that.” Dumbledore says, frowning. “But you could prove very helpful, if you were inclined to assist me. He Who Must Not Be Named is growing stronger by the day. It's only a matter of time...”

           

“And if I decline...”

           

“I think that would be most unwise...”

           

“Of course.” She nods stiffly. “I'll do what I must.” Dumbledore was looking for a much more promising attitude, but he's got to take what he can get. He extends his hand for a shake, and she begrudgingly takes it, her grip listless, her eyes cast down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have posted this story on fanfiction.net, so maybe you've stumbled across it on there. I hope this first chapter has piqued your interest and you continue to read! If you feel so inclined, I'd love it if you left a review/comment. Cheers!


	2. I: Freedom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore's new acquisition is introduced to the Order of the Phoenix with mixed reviews. However, nobody seems too concerned an Azkaban prisoner with a life sentence will be teaching children Defense Against the Dark Arts.

II.  
Freedom?  
[Number 12 Grimmauld Place | August 1995]

* * *

 

The next morning, V. Spektor awakes on a musty velvet couch in the shuttered living room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. She remembers this room from a social gathering she once attended with her family, back when her family did such things, like leave the house and converse with others. All those pure-bloods in a room, if someone blew the place up there'd be no more left. She remembers hiding in the attic, playing exploding snap with Lestrange. He would never leave her alone—it was almost unendurable. She hears footsteps on the stairs and incoherent mumbling in the hall. Reluctantly she ventures out of the living room and down the narrow set of stairs to the kitchen, where breakfast is being served. As soon as she enters, the entire room falls silent. She turns to leave, but stops in her tracks once Albus calls out to her.

           

“Good morning, Victoria. Please join us. I've saved you a seat.” He gestures for her to take the empty place next to him at the long kitchen table. She cringes at the use of her mother's name. There's literally nothing in the world she wants to do less than join this lot for breakfast. But the food smells incredible, so her stomach wins.

           

“Who dug up that old thing?” Ron Weasley asks, turning towards Hermione and Harry, his mouth full of eggs.

           

“V. Spektor.” Sirius Black says, overhearing him. “Honestly, why Dumbledore wants more Death Eaters in the Order is beyond me...” He's referring to Severus Snape, of course.

           

“Ex-Death Eater, I'm sure.” Hermione says, eyes widening with her classic skepticism.

 

“Yeah sure—just look at her. I was on the same cell block as her in Azkaban. They say she's possessed or something. Before I got there, I heard she drove her neighbor to kill himself just by _talking_ to him…” But before Sirius can elaborate, he catches sight of his knife, which has begun to levitate, it's blade pointing at him in a rather threatening manner. He glances over to where the subject of their conversation was sitting, and she was looking directly at him, her eyes dull and unblinking. Sirius shivers. “Don't look in her eyes. I hear that’s how she gets to you.” He whispers, and quickly gets up from his seat. Spektor's gaze is locked on him until he exits, and then turns her attention back to the buttered toast on her plate.

 

After the meal, the members of Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix convene in the living room. The doors are shut to prevent the young ones from listening in, but that doesn't stop Fred and George Weasely from trying to use their Extendable Ears. They get a good ten minutes-worth of information before Severus Snape confiscates them and orders the twins to clear out.

 

“Now where was I...” Dumbledore paces back and forth before the group of witches and wizards, sitting around on couches and occasional chairs. Then he remembers he was discussing the Ministry of Magic's flat-out refusal to recognize that the Dark Lord has returned, that he killed that young Hufflepuff Cedric Diggory back in May, and has steadily been gathering his followers around him once more.

 

“They've all got their heads in the bloody ground.” Growls Alastor Moody. “I'll tell ya, Dumbledore, I've had it up to here with the lot of 'em.” Kingsley Shacklebolt nods in agreement. It's been a tough time at the Ministry indeed. “Anyway, I reckon Fudge isn't likely to do you any more favors for a while after what you pulled to get _her_ outta Azkaban...” Moody glares at Spektor, who's sitting in a chair on the fringes of the group. Moody seems to be one of the only ones in the group who has any idea who Spektor is, besides Dumbledore. He didn't consider this, and makes a hasty introduction.

 

“Dear me, I've forgotten to introduce our newest member. Everyone, this is Victoria Spektor. She'll be joining the Order on a special assignment.” Dumbledore says, gesturing to the waif lounging in a chair to his left. She stares at the floor, ignoring the group that has directed its collective attention at her.

 

“Oh my, what a pleasure.” Sirius Black says sarcastically. Spektor looks up at him, her lips curling into a sneer.

 

“Come on now Sirius, it's important that we all work together—each member has an important contribution....” Molly Weasely pipes up, scolding him as though he's one of his own children.

 

“Yeah? And what's my contribution? This house? She's not only free, but _trusted_ to go on a special assignment? You've got to be _kidding_ me.” Sirius rants, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “Besides, I refuse to work with Death Eaters.” He snubs his nose at her and looks away.

 

“I'm not a Death Eater.” Spektor says flatly.

 

“What's that mark on your arm then?” Black shouts, pointing rudely.

 

“Settle down, Black. You don't know what you're talking about.” Spektor says, shifting in her chair.

 

“I don't know...what?...Are you...” He stammers, frustration building, until he just gives up, sinking back into the couch, sighing loudly.

 

“You weren't a Death Eater?” Dumbledore asks, casting Spektor a look of surprise. “That is the dark mark on your arm though, if I'm not mistaken...”

           

“Good lord, Albus – you of all people should know what the Dark Mark looks like.” She rolls her eyes and pulls up the sleeve of her grubby prison tunic. On her right forearm is the image of a snake, curled about itself in an infinite loop, biting it's own tail. “Me, a Death Eater. That's a good one.”

 

“Hm. You’ll have to forgive me...” Dumbledore says, still perplexed. The rest of the room is confused as well. Maybe they had it all wrong after all.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

Severus Snape corners Spektor in the hallway after the meeting as she's attempting to slip up the stairs to the attic. He opens his mouth but no words come out, choking nervously on whatever it is he is trying to impart, which he hasn't even fully figured out yet. Spektor heaves a long, suffering sigh.

 

“Can I… _help_ you?” She squints at him.

 

“He's told me about you.” Severus finally spits out. The look on her face is uninterpretable.

 

“What?” V fiddles with her ring.

 

“Caught me looking at a picture of you in his study.” Severus continues cautiously. “You were standing in a moonlit garden, surrounded by all these statues...they were weeping...”

 

“Who are you?” She snaps, suddenly twice as hostile as she had already been.

 

“Severus Snape. Head of Slytherin house, Potions master...” He answers slowly, uneasily.

 

“And what exactly do you _want_ , Severus Snape?” She locks her eyes on his, and he notices them for the first time—inky black pools, all pupil. He's never seen a human with eyes like that. He shudders.

 

“Nothing...I just...” He stammers.

 

“Nothing? Good. Best to want nothing. Then you'll never be disappointed.” She says flatly. Sweeping around to ascend the stairs, she leaves a quite shaken-up Snape frozen in place. This is going to be more difficult than he thought.

 

Reaching the solace of the attic, she finds herself inside a dusty room stuffed with boxes and laced with cobwebs. Out of a trunk she pulls a black robe with deep green velvet trim. That'll do. She slips into a faded black knee-length dress and stockings that looked alright at first, but turn out to be riddled with holes. Beggars can't be choosers. Digging further she finds a cache of spare wands. All are broken except one, which she snatches up. Muttering a quick spell, she waves the wand in a circular motion around her head, and her hair shears itself off to about mid-spine, curling itself into a style she hasn't worn in nearly fifty years. She catches her reflection in a cracked mirror propped up against the wall. Her teeth, she observes, begin to elongate—growing like thorns on a rosebush—and her nose flattens. She blinks, frowns, and looks away. That's not her, she reminds herself. That's someone else.


	3. I: Caring is Creepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing good ever comes from reading someone's diary. Especially Tom Riddle's.

III.  
Caring is Creepy  
[Hogwarts | September 1943]

* * *

 

“You know, sometimes I get so flushed, it's interesting... Do your palms ever itch?” A golden-haired witch, Penelope Fairchild, chatters, leaning back from the Slytherin table and casting a conspicuous glance down the hall towards a group of boys. The girls seated around her giggle, except one, whose mind is somewhere else entirely. Penelope Fairchild is the darling of the seventh years, rumored to be part-veela, although she's the one who says that, so we all know how reliable that information probably is. But with her brilliant white smile, royal blue eyes, and voluminous flaxen hair, she doesn't need to be part veela to win the attention of every boy in the school.

 

“You've probably been poisoned. I'd get that checked out if I were you.” A waif of a girl with inky dark hair drawls, staring down at her soup. Her green and silver Prefect badge shines in the candlelight.

           

“Oh c'mon Spektor don't act like you've never fancied anyone...” One of the other girls pipes up, nudging her playfully. She tears her eyes away from her lumpy pea soup to look in the direction Penelope had just indicated.

 

“Yeah yeah...” Spektor yawns. She slips her hand in her pocket for a moment, forgetting whether she’d taken along that little black book she’d found earlier.

 

“He's so handsome isn't he?” Fairchild coos. He is handsome. Tall, dark hair, good posture, strong shoulders, an air of mystery and danger about him. Plus he's the bloody Head Boy. Not that Spektor's thought a lot about Tom Riddle. These are all just basic observations. Spektor rolls her eyes. Gathering her books, she rises from the table.

 

“Don't stare Penelope, he's not a bloody work of art.” Spektor says, a little too loud. Penelope, in the process of sweeping around to dramatically to shush Spektor, knocks a goblet of pumpkin juice over, the contents spilling all over her. Spektor voices some impolite phrases, causing the whole table to look over at her, and stalks out of the Great Hall dripping with sticky orange liquid, off to make her rounds of the castle.

 

After an hour of her Prefect patrol duties, her shoes conspicuously squelching as she patrols the corridors, Spektor runs into the object of Fairchild's desire.

 

“You're not on duty now, Riddle.” Spektor states, eyeing him curiously.

 

“And your point is?” Riddle says, shifting the books under his arm. He seems to be in a hurry. Or at least that would explain the irritation if he weren’t always like this.

 

“Headed back to the common room?”

 

“Of course. Where else would I be going?”

 

“The common room is that way.” She says flatly, pointing in the direction he had just come from. What a wise-ass.

 

“So it is.” He says, cracking a sarcastic grin. Spektor narrows her eyes.

 

“Where do you go at night?” This is something she's been wondering for a while now.

 

“I could ask you the same thing, Spektor.” He counters quickly, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Fine then. I see how it is.” She says, starting to walk away. As she does so, she slips a flask from her robe pocket and taking a swig.

 

“Drinking on the job?” Riddle asks her back, eyeing the flask with considerable interest.

 

“No. Uh. Well...not exactly...it's...a potion...” She spins around, his irritation creeping into her own inflection. What’s he doing watching her as she walks away, anyway. There's only one way to remedy this. Tom Riddle might be annoying, but he might also not be as much of a square as he seems... She approaches and offers the flask to him. He eyes it skeptically, then takes it from her outstretched hand. He sniffs the liquid.

 

“This smells poisonous...” He says, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Don't be stupid, I just drank it. Give it a try if you like...” She watches the young man raise the flask to his lips and take a very small sip. He feels a pleasant tingling sensation spread to his whole body, his muscles relaxing as if he'd just been given a two-hour massage. The hall takes on a rosy tint, and he isn't sure whether he is sitting or standing. His mind goes completely silent, and his face takes on a dazed expression.

 

“What...what is that?” He stammers dreamily.

 

“Draught of Dreamlife.” She says, “My own personal brew.” His eyes widen. She can see beads of sweat forming on his brow. He was desperately trying to resist the effects of the potion, but his efforts were only making him extremely anxious.

 

“I...uh...I can't feel my feet.” He stammers, “Make this stop. I don't like this...Shit, Spektor...I'm gonna be sick...” He gropes around for his pocket, and attempts to take out his wand, but fumbles and drops it on the floor. Goofily he stumbles after his wand, which is now rolling slowly down the hall. Spektor snatches up the wand and slips it back in his pocket, then grabs his arm. He immediately tenses, but is too uncoordinated to yank it away.

 

“Oh dear...Come with me.” She drags him into a nearby empty classroom and sits him at the professor's desk. “Seems it doesn’t agree with you…It'll wear off in a bit, don't worry. You just have to wait...” Riddle heaves a big sigh and leans back, his eyes still wide, his body both extremely relaxed and extremely tense, trying to figure out how that’s even _possible_. He stares at the ceiling for a while, completely transfixed, breathing loudly, sweating profusely. Spektor sits on the desk and watches him for a bit, then, pulling out a notebook and quill, starts to sketch. Neither are quite sure how much time passes, but it feels like hours before Tom Riddle emerges from his all-too-lucid dream. He watches Spektor draw for a moment before she looks up again. They lock eyes, and he speaks.

 

“What...are you drawing?” Riddle asks slowly, yawning. Spektor returns her attention to the notebook, putting a few finishing touches on the picture before revealing it to Riddle. “What's that supposed to be?” He asks, his jaw tightening, his heart starting to beat faster, faster.

 

“That's you.” Spektor points to the figure of a tall, handsome young man, “And that's the basilisk.” She points to the giant snake coiled opposite the young man, it’s head tipped, it’s mouth open slightly. The position of the snake and the young man leads one to believe they are engaged in some sort of conversation. Tom's heart is pounding furiously in his chest. What did this girl know? And, more importantly, how did she know it?

 

“You're not a very good artist.” Riddle snaps, leaning back in the chair as casually as he can manage, given the state of his nerves.

 

“Are you alright?” Spektor asks, closing the notebook and returning it to her bag.

 

“Why did you draw...that?” Still trying to be casual. Still failing.

 

“You can talk to snakes.” She says. Riddle almost falls out of his chair.

 

“How. Do. You. Know. That?” He stammers.

 

“I heard you.” Spektor says. A smirk creeps across her thin lips. “It's extremely rare.”

 

“Yes, I’m _aware_.” He says, dripping with condescension. “Well...and the basilisk...?”

 

“Snakes have different accents. Basilisks have a certain pattern of speech. But I’m sure you’re aware of that as well.” Spektor swings her legs a little, back and forth. “Heard you talking to one last year...” She isn't about to reveal just yet how it is she knew any of this. All in good time, if he is to be trusted—which has yet to be determined.

 

“What are you playing at, Spektor?” Riddle evaluates the abnormally tall young woman, who is perched on the desk in front of him like a vulture, her weird out-of-focus grey eyes rimmed in winged black eyeliner, thick dark hair elegantly coiffed, severe cheekbones, crimson lips slightly parted. Uniform hanging loosely on her wiry figure, tie dangling from her neck like a noose, shirt slightly untucked—she might be considered reasonably pretty by most standards if she wasn't so pale and uncomfortably skeletal.

 

“I'm curious about you.”

 

“Curious?” Riddle laughs, a high, cold laugh that doesn't suit him. “I assure you, Spektor, there's nothing of interest about me.” Then she pulls out a little black book from her pocket. Riddle stops laughing, a look of horror seizing him.

 

“Well, you'll have trouble convincing me of that now...after a glance at this...” She holds the diary in her bony hands, flipping its pages. In a matter of seconds, Riddle rises from his chair and lunges at the girl, knocking the desk over with a loud crash, and her with it.

 

“Bloody hell, Riddle. Get _off_ me.” She grunts, heaving the angry young man off her, then massaging the back of her head, which had just smacked against the hard stone floor. She was still holding the diary, but not for long. Riddle, who had scrambled quickly to his feet, and is now towering over her, grabs it out of her hand.

 

“You dirty thief.” He hisses. Spektor rises to her feet, scowling.

 

“Saw it on your desk after potions... Maybe you ought to get more sleep...don't want to be leaving things like that just lying around.” After a pause, during which Riddle seems to be replaying the events of earlier that day to see if her story checks out, she says, “You're lucky I'm the one who found it.”

 

“Lucky?” Riddle chews the word and spits it out. Apparently her story does check out, and he's already kicking himself mentally for being such a careless fool. He's not going to tell her the reason he forgot the diary. It's not like he was distracted by the young woman that sat in front of him during potions. Of course not.

 

“Just imagine if someone else found it...like that Penelope Fairchild.”

 

“Who?” He hisses, his anger quickly dissipating and replaced by apathetic bewilderment.

 

“She fancies you.” Spektor picks up her bag from the floor and throws it over her shoulder. “For some reason...” She says over her shoulder as she glides towards the door. She lets it slam behind her. Seconds later Tom is in the corridor behind her, footsteps hurried but silent.

 

“Spektor. Wait. I don't know what you read, or why you were reading it in the first place, but...” Riddle begins in a stern whisper.

 

“Don't even think on it, Riddle.” She replies in a whisper as well. “I don't really care what you get up to. I suppose you're right—there isn't really anything of interest about you.” She turns around and sets off down the darkened corridor, leaving him standing stiffly in front of the empty classroom's door, still slightly ajar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are curious, I nicked the title of this chapter from the first song off the Shin's debut album "Oh, Inverted World." It's worth a listen if you like dreamy indie music that has nothing to do with the chapter you've just read.


	4. I: The Unlikely Professor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's appetite knows no bounds. The same could not be said of her fondness for her students.

IV.  
The Unlikely Professor  
[Hogwarts | September 1995]

* * *

 

“And please welcome Professor Spektor, who will be taking the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” A smattering of applause jostles “Professor” Spektor from her reverie. Instead of a customary wave, Spektor just stares blankly out at the sea of young faces, not even thinking to display smile. Albus Dumbledore then announces the start of the feast, and everyone begins to dig in.

 

She's seated at the staff table between Hagrid and Minerva McGonagall. Her two former classmates barely acknowledge her, and what’s more, they seem to be actively ignoring her. Hagrid inches his chair a few inches away from Spektor indiscreetly. Looking out over the Great Hall, all the students catching up, plotting, whatever they do, evokes in her a twinge of loneliness, of bitter nostalgia. But the aroma of the food adequately distracts her, and she eats with gusto. She piles onto her plate a large helping of pheasant, a mound of mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, whatever else is in reach, and smothers the whole mess in gravy. Hagrid watches her with a bemused grin. After two helpings of pudding, she pushes herself away from the table. Stuffed and sleepy, Spektor takes her leave from the feast early and steals away to locate her new lodgings. It's a far journey, winding through the familiar corridors and the moving staircase to the third floor corridor. Her living quarters adjoin the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, through a door behind the desk at the front of the room.

 

The room is small and minimally adorned, with a low iron-framed twin bed in the corner and a shabby desk near the window. A few empty bookcases line the walls. The desk is caked in wax, the chair just off-balance enough to be irritating. There is nothing to unpack. She sits there for a moment feeling deeply alone. But she was alone in Azkaban. How is this any different? Her eyes flit over the stone floor, the bare walls, the large window where the moonlight streams in. Don't think about that.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

When Professor Spektor awakes, she notices a parcel on the desk, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red string. She leaps out of bed, her bedsheets tangling and slipping to the floor, and grabs the package, runs her eyes over every inch of it, inspecting it. It smells like musk, embers plucked from a fire. They're _still_ following her? After all these years? Before she had the chance to peel back the paper and uncover the parcel's contents, a knock came at the door. It was Albus Dumbledore.

 

“I see you're settling in. Hope you slept well.” He says, glancing around the room, then setting his eyes on Spektor, who is looking nervous, hands holding the parcel trembling slightly. “What's that?” Dumbledore asks, gesturing towards the item in her hands.

 

“Probably nothing.” She thunks it back on the desk and positions her body to block the item from Albus' view. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Albus?” Spektor asks, maybe a tad bit too insolent.

 

“I was hoping we'd have a chance to meet soon. I have a few questions for you.” Dumbledore says. “How about this evening?”

 

“I think I can fit that in.” Spektor mutters.

 

“Good. I suspect we have a lot to talk about.” He says, glancing around the room again. “A bit gloomy in here, isn't it? Here.” He transfigures an empty ink pot into a vase full of violets. The sight and scent of the flowers bring a genuine smile to her face. She buries her nose in their fragrant petals, and when she looks back up, Dumbledore is gone. Her attention returns to the strange parcel on her desk.

 

She's always been one of those people who unwrap gifts carefully so as not to tear the paper. Folding the wrappings neatly, along with the string, and setting them aside, she examines the box. It's smooth black lacquer, completely seamless, yet she's sure it's hollow in the middle—that it contains something. And she's pretty sure she knows exactly who it's from.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

Students file into the cavernous classroom, vaulted ceilings lit dimly by candles fitted into iron chandeliers. The windows are darkened, and a faint crackling of a radio drifts from somewhere distant. The classroom is austere, impersonal, and most unwelcoming. The students settle into their desks, looking around for any sign of their new professor. Harry lights the tip of his wand to help see in the gloom.

 

“Are we early or something?” Ron asks.

 

“You're never early, Ron.” Hermione snaps, opening her textbook. “I can barely read in this lighting, this is ridiculous.” Silent footsteps creep up behind Harry's desk.

 

“Harry Potter.” Professor Spektor says. “We didn't get a chance to properly meet earlier.” Harry shivers, and jerks his head around to locate the speaker. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor extends her hand for him to shake. “V. Spektor. It's a pleasure...” An ominous feeling stirs in the pit of Harry's stomach. There's an intensity in her black eyes that makes him look away, like they could strip him to his very core. He takes her thin, clammy hand and shakes it politely, and a searing pain flashes in his scar. A pained look contorts Harry’s face, and Spektor lets go suddenly, a frown forming in the creases of her mouth. “Sorry.” She mutters. Studying her hand, she walks up to the front of the room, her robes billowing behind her. Absently she waves her wand and a screen erects itself.

 

“It's just as important to know how to heal yourself as it is to defend yourself.” She says, more to herself than to the class. “Chances are high that if you are attacked there won't be anyone around to help you. So pay attention.” She flicks her wand and a slide of a victim of a particularly nasty curse is illuminated on the screen.

 

“Right, just dive right in. No need for introductions for the rest of the class.” Ron mutters sarcastically, propping his chin on his hand.

 

 “What would you do if you were this poor fellow?” Half the class covers their eyes. The image is rather graphic. There's a lot of blood. Hermione's hand shoots up.

 

After forty-five minutes of gruesome scenes and explanations on how to heal yourself if you've been hit by a curse that tears your wand arm off and the like, the students pack up their things and head for the door slightly more nauseated than when they entered.

 

“My god, how stupid do you have to be to let that happen to your head?” Draco Malfoy cracks under his breath to Crabbe and Goyle. Draco Malfoy gets quite a chuckle out of some of the images as well, which Professor Spektor apparently hears. She pulls him aside.

 

“Draco Malfoy. You find injuries funny, do you?” She says icily.

 

“I...I...oh no, Professor...I don't…” Malfoy simpers, putting up his hands.

 

“Maybe you'd like to help me demonstrate my next lesson. Live demonstrations tend to have more...impact...I find...” Professor Spektor's veiled threat is not lost on Malfoy. The color drains from his face.

 

“Please, Professor...” He whines. “Don't make me...”

 

“I would never make you do anything.” She says.

 

Malfoy squirms. “Go on. You're going to be late to your next class.” And she waves him off.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

“I heard your first classes had quite an impression on the students.” Albus Dumbledore says after Professor Spektor settles herself across from him in a high-backed chair in his cozy, cluttered office. “One first-year came to Professor McGonagall in tears...” He gazes at her from behind his half-moon spectacles.

 

“Hmmm.” She says pensively. “I just taught them about common curses...”

 

“And I believe you demonstrated some of them on her pet toad.” Dumbledore says.

 

“That was a pet?” she says, blinking.

  

“You had something you wanted to ask me, Albus?”

 

“Yes.” He nods, folding his hands in his lap. “While a student at Hogwarts, you were acquainted with a student named Tom Riddle, correct?” Spektor stares blankly back at the old wizard.

 

“We were in the same year.” She says.

 

“Would you say you were friends with him?” Dumbledore ventures cautiously.

 

“Perhaps.” She says. Dumbledore detects a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Let's not ask questions we already know the answers to, Albus. Why else would you assume I was a Death Eater?”

 

“Well then, what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Tom Riddle? If I may be so blunt…” Dumbledore asks outright.

 

“You've heard the rumors. What do you think?”

 

“Honestly, I don't know what to think. These rumors you mention, they sound quite improbable...” Dumbledore muses.

 

“I’m a little offended, Albus. You drag me out of Azkaban and call me in here and the first question you ask me is about whether I was friends with someone fifty years ago, in hopes that I can give you some information about what? What he was like as a student? What he ate in the Great Hall? What type of sweets he bought in Hogsmeade?” She leans back in the chair and crosses her arms. “You know an awful lot about him already...but hardly anything about me. And for some reason...it doesn't seem like you're the least bit curious.” She says, frowning.

 

“Should I be?” Dumbledore says, arching his eyebrows.

 

“Absolutely.” She says, twisting the ring on her middle finger absentmindedly.


	5. I: Not Stalking, Just Walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bunch of prefects and the head boy breaking rules. Business as usual.

V.  
Not Stalking, Just Walking  
[Hogwarts | October 1943]

* * *

 The night before Halloween, Spektor's out roaming the corridors, unable to sleep. She peeks into the Great Hall to catch sight of this year's decorations being prepared by the house elves, many of whom are sitting cross-legged on the floor carving elaborate jack-o’-lanterns. Skirting along the walls, she blends in well with the late-night gloom. She has what you might call an odd predilection for fading into the background, becoming one with the scenery. Wandering down by the dungeons, she hears footsteps behind her and ducks behind a suit of armor, careful not to rustle the metal. A group of boys hurry past, taking care not to make any noise. They're Slytherins, and she recognizes the faces of Lestrange, Avery, and...Riddle. Hmmm... She slips out from behind the suit of armor once they pass and follows them at a distance. After turning a few corners, the three disappear into a darkened classroom. The door closes before she can get to it. No matter. Spektor lurks in the shadows outside the classroom, drinking liberally from her flask, waiting for the three to remerge in hopes of catching some stray fragments of conversation.

 

“Spektor?” A surprised voice behind her says, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. She didn't hear the door open, let alone close, and she turns around to see the three Slytherin boys standing in front of her. The voice belonged to Lestrange. “Fancy meeting you here.” A creepy smile curls upon his pockmarked, slightly ruddy face.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Riddle demands, his arms folded.

 

“Couldn't sleep.” Spektor says, yawning convincingly. “What are you doing here?”

 

The three boys exchange looks.

 

“Homework?” Avery offers, a little too unsure of himself, and looks at Riddle, who shoots him a dirty look in return.

 

“A young lady such as yourself shouldn't be wandering these corridors alone at night, Spektor.” Lestrange says, stepping forward. “It isn't safe. Here, let me escort you back to the common room.” He proffers his arm.

 

“We're all going back to the common room.” Riddle states forcefully.

 

“I was thinking of going to the kitchens...actually...” Spektor says, gesturing in the opposite direction, “I'm a bit hungry...”

 

“It's after midnight. I doubt...wait...you intend to just walk into the kitchens? And ask for food?” Lestrange scoffs.

 

“I didn't say anything about asking...” Spektor mutters, starting to walk off down the corridor. Lestrange watches her for a moment, debating with himself whether to follow her. But the three boys set off in the opposite direction. Then, Riddle stops suddenly.

 

“I think I might've forgotten something... Go on, I'll catch up.” Riddle says, and as the two continue on without him, he doubles back and catches up with Spektor.

 

“Why are you following me?” Riddle demands, in hushed tones. Spektor halts.

 

“I believe it is _you_ who is following _me_ at the moment.” She turns around to face him.

 

“So you just ended up outside of that classroom by coincidence?”

 

“I was on my way to the kitchens. I stopped to have a...think...”

 

“You mean 'a drink.'”

           

“What do you want, Riddle?”

           

“I want to know what you want, Spektor.”

 

“A snack.”

           

“Where do you go at night, Spektor?”

 

“All over. Wherever I feel like. Tonight, the kitchens. Sometimes the Astronomy tower. I don't sleep much.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“My dreams aren't safe anymore.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“Oh...I dunno...” She trails off. Then, “Why are you so curious about me all of a sudden? What's it to you?”

 

“Shouldn't I be curious about someone who's so curious about me?”

 

“Don't flatter yourself.”

 

“Why do you drink that stuff?”

 

“For protection.”

 

“Protection?”

           

“Again—what's it to you?”

           

“Oh, nothing...” Riddle drawls, shifting his weight, looking like he was considering an exit.

           

“While we're playing Twenty Questions: what was that all about back there, anyway?” Spektor asks, folding her arms across her chest, mimicking Riddle's stance. “I hardly believe Avery...”

           

“It's none of your business.”

           

“Suddenly so secretive...Now, I don't think that's very fair...”

           

“You've read my bloody diary...why don't you take a guess?”

           

“Well then, all that sneaking around must've made you hungry...Come along—there's probably cake...” V smirks, stalking off down the hall. She doesn't expect Riddle to follow, and Riddle doesn't quite know why he is following. He's not even hungry.


	6. I: Puzzling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favorite Ministry official shows up and starts doling out rules, and the Trio makes an unsettling discovery about Professor Spektor.

VI.  
Puzzling  
[Hogwarts | October 1995]

* * *

 Dappled in moonlight, the courtyard lay still and quiet, save for a rustling in the bushes. Ronald Weasley stops dead in his tracks with a sharp intake of breath, glancing around nervously, rubbing the back of his neck out of nervous habit. He catches a glimpse of a pale wrist and cringes, a bit too overtly, but then again there’s nobody around to see him. Except this person. If they’re still…he gulps…alive… He cautiously edges away from the bushes, thinking to himself that of course when he finds a dead body he’s _alone_. Just great. As he walks away there’s a rustling behind him and he freezes once more, his air getting all caught up in his lungs, his dinner getting stirred up in his gut and threatening to expel itself all over the courtyard. Slowly, very slowly, he turns around.

 

“Bloody hell!” He gasps, clapping his hand to his mouth. Professor Spektor’s standing in the bushes, her left arm at an unnatural angle, her right brushing bits of shrubbery out of her dark, messy hair.

 

“Am I? Bleeding, that is?” She asks casually, running her hand over her face and drawing it away with a slight smear of blood, nothing too serious.

 

“Are you…alright?” Ron glances around nervously. “Do you need…should I call Madame Pomfrey?”

 

“Madame Pomfrey doesn’t know shit about healing.” Professor Spektor says bitterly, and then, realizing her company, “Excuse me. No. Sorry. Thank you. What am I supposed to say?” She blinks a few times, squints at Ron, and smiles pleasantly. “Ron Weasley. You’re friends with Potter.”

 

“Yeah. That’s right. Potter’s friend. My claim to fame.” Ron says bitterly, then, remembering his company, says “He’s my best mate, yeah. Can I ask what…uh…happened? You look like you fell from…”

 

“The roof? That’s silly, if I fell from the roof I’d be dead.” Professor Spektor smiles oddly. She draws her wand and runs it the length of her arm, uttering no incantation at all. Ron watches her in a puzzled daze, contemplating how to excuse himself, to get away. He’s got a game of Wizards’ chess he’s currently standing Dean Thomas up for. “You good at puzzles, Weasley?”

 

“Um, not particularly, I don’t think…” Ron thinks on it. “Hermione’s probably better…Hermione’s better at everything, really…”

 

“I didn’t ask you about Hermione.” Professor Spektor says, making an unpleasant face when she says the name. “I asked you about yourself. Here, what do you make of this?” She tosses Ron the small black lacquer box she received in the post a few days ago. He turns it over in his hands, running his fingers along the edges.

 

“I could take a crack at it, I guess.” He says smugly, shrugging his shoulders. “I've never seen one like this before...Are you sure it opens? Are you sure it's a puzzle? What’s inside?”

 

“That’s the fun of it, isn’t it? I’ve got no idea. I’ve been struggling with it for days. Can’t make heads or tails of the thing.”

 

“Yeah, alright. I’ll see what I can do.” Ron says, his eyes lighting up. He’s never been asked by a professor to solve a problem for them before. That kind of stuff always goes straight to Harry and Hermione.

 

“Just don’t lose it, alright? It was a present.” She says. “And probably best not to bring your mates in on this. I trust you can handle it yourself.”

 

“Right. Of course.” Ron says, smiling, fully engaged with the box in his hands.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

When Ron returns to the Gryffindor common room, Harry and Hermione are waiting for him. Hermione's standing in the center of the plush furnished room, her hands on her hips, foot tapping in annoyance.

 

“Where have you been?” She scoffs. Ron shuffles past her, staring at something in his hands. “Dean stormed out of here fifteen minutes ago to go find you. What's that? What've you got?”

 

“Ron what is that?” Harry circles around Ron to get a better look at what he’s trying to conceal behind him. Ron plops down on a sofa and shoves the thing behind him.

 

“What’s what?” Ron asks, showing his hands empty.

 

“Come on, we both saw it!” Harry lunges at Ron and tickles him in the ribs.

 

“Stop! Harry! No!” Ron says through fits of laughter. “If you continue I will not be responsible for punching you in your stupid face!” While Ron’s doubling over in his giggle fit, Hermione snatches the box from behind him on the sofa.

 

“What’s this then?” Hermione says, turning the small black box over in her hand. “Ron, where’d you get this?”

 

“I'm not supposed to tell anyone about it.” He giggles.

 

“What do you mean you're not supposed to tell anyone about it? Who gave that to you?” Hermione demands.

 

“Professor Spektor.” Ron laughs. Hermione fumes.

 

“She gave you a _present_?” Harry asks incredulously. “What for?”

 

“She didn’t _give_ it to me, she asked me to solve it.” He says, breathing heavily, but speaking semi-normally now. “It’s some sort of puzzle.”

 

“Why you?” Hermione asks, and then, realizing the harshness of the question, tries to backpedal, “I mean, oh come on, you know what I mean… Why not ask one of the other professors? Or Dumbledore?”

 

“I dunno.” Ron says, shrugging. “I don’t know about her…she doesn’t seem to be all there, know what I mean? A few cards short of a full deck.”

 

“Well she was locked up in Azkaban for, what did Sirius say, _fifty years_? If that doesn’t drive you mad, I don’t know what would.” Harry says. “Wait, why _did_ she get sent to Azkaban?”

 

“No idea.” Ron shrugs. “I’d never even heard of her before. I mean, I guess whatever she did was before all of our time, but I dunno, you’d think…usually people talk…”

 

“Whatever she got sent to Azkaban for must be in the history books. I’m going to…”

 

“The library?” Ron and Harry ask in unison. Hermione glares at them.

 

“I don’t know why we didn’t think to check before. If she’s going to be teaching us, and Ron’s going to be her new best friend, I think we need to know more about what we’re dealing with.” Hermione says, and gathers her things. “I’d stop playing with that if I were you. At least until I come back.” She orders. Ron puts the puzzle down on the table obediently. Harry stifles a laugh, and Ron elbows him hard in the ribs.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

The Ministry of Magic was bound to step in, and sure enough a certain ministry official decides it is a good idea to send a representative to Hogwarts to make sure everything is up to snuff. The representative is one Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and she makes her presence well known from the moment she sets foot in the castle.

 

“Ahem.” A squat, toad-like witch dressed in pink tweed is standing at the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Most of the students, including Harry, Ron, and Hermione, turn around to stare at the intruder. Actually, one of the only students _not_ to turn around is Draco Malfoy, who is giving Professor Spektor his complete and undivided attention. Professor Spektor ignores her and continues describing the difference between a magical laceration and one caused by a common sharp object like a knife or sword. “ _Ahem_.” The witch repeats, her irritation glazed in a saccharine coating.

 

“Do you want something?” Professor Spektor asks, facing the chalkboard, sounding bored.

 

“Yes.” The witch says, now striding into the room, her head swiveling as she surveys the students. “I want to introduce myself. I'm...”

 

“Dolores Umbridge. Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic.” Spektor cuts her off, still with her back to the woman. Umbridge stares at her, quite taken aback.

 

“Yes. And I've been sent by the Ministry to evaluate the quality of education the students at Hogwarts are receiving.” She says with a frown. “I've been told you've been teaching some rather _disturbing_ material, so I've taken it upon myself to provide you with some more _suitable_ coursework for these young witches and wizards.” Umbridge conjures a stack of textbooks on Professor Spektor's desk. Finally, Professor Spektor turns around.

 

“And what exactly do you find _disturbing_ about healing?”

 

“I don’t think these students will ever have any cause to use these…measures of healing and defense you’re instructing them with. What use is information that not only won’t be useful, but also scars these poor innocent children, instilling them with fear and worry?” She puts her hand on Pavarti Patil’s shoulder.

 

“You know what scars poor innocent children?” Professor Spektor quips. Harry squirms in his seat, his own scar twinging. “People like you.”

 

“Excuse me?” Umbridge says, placing her hand on her heart in mild offense. “Whatever do you mean by that, Miss…” The air has gone from the classroom, and all the students sit still in their seats, holding their breath.

 

“Oh please, you know who I am.” Professor Spektor rolls her eyes. Umbridge tips her head as she peers at the wiry woman in thick black robes standing before the blackboard, a piece of chalk delicately pinched between her long bone-white fingers. Then she notices the eyes. Those eyes she saw peering at her from a cell in Azkaban during her tour when she was first brought on as Fudge’s Undersecretary. Those black lightless inhuman eyes. Dolores Umbridge shudders.

 

“My my. It seems they’ll let anyone teach here. Things are much worse than I thought.” She smiles wickedly. “Please adhere to the curriculum the Ministry has set forth. I’ll be visiting periodically to check in on your progress.”

 

“Lovely.” Professor Spektor says coldly. “Thank Merlin for the Ministry, who never fail to tell us exactly what to do.”

 

“Indeed.” Umbridge flashes a vicious smile before bustling out the door.

 

“Now where were we. Oh yes, see the way the blood flows in this case here, you can tell this wound was caused by a wand. Note the edges of the skin at the point of separation...” Professor Spektor drones on as if Umbridge had never barged in in the first place.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

“Harry, Ron, you've got to read this!” Hermione gasps, completely out of breath having just stumbled into the Gryffindor common room cradling a huge volume in her arms. She drops the book with a thump on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. The two boys gather around and watch as she flips through the pages until she lands on the passage, jabbing it with her pointer finger. “I knew it had to be bad, whatever she did. And it is. It's bad.”

  

**Spektor, Victoria** : the subject of one of the most notable murder trials of the last century, Victoria Spektor, at only seventeen years of age, brutally murdered her father Septimus and her sister Lucinda in their home in London on December 27, 1943. After eluding the authorities for nearly a year, she was tracked down and arrested in Knockturn Alley, and found in possession of several illegal substances which authorities discovered were used to poison an entire muggle village under the direction of Gellert Grindelwald. It is believed that Victoria Spektor was the first member of the Knights of Walpurgus, a group which later became known as the Death Eaters. For these crimes, Victoria “V.” Spektor was sentenced to life in Azkaban Prison.

 

A small replica of Professor Spektor's likeness, from fifty years in the past, glares at them from beside the blurb. She's pretty, Ron thinks—hauntingly pretty—and absolutely furious about something, like she could kill the photographer snapping the picture. It reminds him of the look she shot Umbridge earlier that day.

 

“That was _her_?” Ron says, a bit stunned, “I remember Dad saying something once about how we think You-Know-Who's bad, but before him Grindelwald and his followers were also bloody terrifying. More muggles died during Grindelwald’s time than during You-Know-Who’s.”

 

“Well if it wasn’t for Harry that might not be the case.” Hermione says, casting Harry a faint smile. “But that’s beside the point.” Hermione sighs. “What are we going to do?”

 

“Dumbledore must trust her. Otherwise he never would’ve hired her.” Harry says.

 

“And Dumbledore also trusts Snape.” Hermione says.

 

“Good point.” Ron injects.

 

“Remember when we thought Sirius was a mass murderer but it turns out it was Pettigrew’s fault?” Harry says. “Maybe it’s something like that. Maybe she was framed.” Harry glances over the blurb again, mulling something over in his mind. “It says here 1943… You know who also went to Hogwarts in 1943?” Harry looks from Ron to Hermione, and watches as the realization dawns on both of them.

 

“You think…you think Riddle made her kill her family? And those muggles? Like with Ginny and the diary?” Ron coughs, the memory still an unpleasant one for him.

 

“It’s a possibility. And that could explain why Dumbledore brought her here.” Harry says. “I know she seems creepy…”

 

“Seems?” Hermione arches an eyebrow. “She’s almost as creepy as You-Know-Who is.” She makes an ugly face.

 

“It says here she was one of the first Death Eaters. Maybe they were _friends_?” Ron says.

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Hermione spits.

 

“Whatever the case, Dumbledore must have a good reason for bringing her here. He wouldn’t have done so if she wasn’t on our side.” Harry says, his faith in Dumbledore strong as ever.

 

“I think we should be careful.” Hermione says skeptically. She wants to put her trust in Dumbledore but something doesn’t feel right. Hermione Granger doesn’t sense an innocent bone in that woman’s body. But there’s nothing to be done, not now in any case. They’ll just have to wait and see.


	7. I: Put That In Your Cauldron & Brew It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slughorn's Potions class gets messy and a reassignment of partners is in order.

VII.  
Put That In Your Cauldron & Brew It  
[The Potions Classroom | November 1943]

 

* * *

 

 

Tom Riddle didn't quite understand what was happening. It was like somehow, without even orchestrating the slightest maneuver, the girl he'd been secretly eyeing during potions is now practically stalking him. It didn't make any sense. In the past six years they've been in school together, they never once were assigned to work on a project together, and never once exchanged conversation in the common room or at mealtimes. Now that he thinks about it, the only times they've ever spoke to each other were the occasions he caught her roaming the castle after dark, to reprimand her, which he eventually stopped bothering to do after her responses grew more and more hostile. Yes, that's the word for her. Hostile. Poison seemed to seep from her skin when approached, the air taking on a tense electrical charge. He'd be lying if he said that isn't one of the reasons she caught his attention. Her capacity for hatred is unrivaled among his fellow students. As well as her blatant disregard for rules. God only knows how she became a prefect. Slughorn probably had something to do with it. His golden girl. His potions prodigy. Riddle can't even begin to compete with her in that arena. A purely natural talent. Or is it?

 

“Now make sure you squeeze the juice out of the pigs' eyes before adding them to the mixture.” Horace Slughorn says, pacing between the rows of desks, peering into simmering cauldrons. He pauses in front of Riddle and Fairchild's cauldron and frowns. “Better hurry up, if you let it sit too much longer it'll congeal...”

 

“Right, sir.” Riddle grumbles, slightly frazzled, plunging his hand into the jar of eyes. He casts a sidelong glance at Fairchild, who is trying with every fiber of her being to not look like she's going to be sick. But when he tries to hand her the gelatinous organ, dripping with fluid, she covers her mouth and turns away, her tanned skin now a pale shade of green. “Useless.” He mutters darkly. And so, as he's squeezing these eyeballs into the potion, which is now definitely congealing, he catches Spektor and Avery in the corner of his own eye—Spektor meticulously slicing the boomslang skin, Avery dropping the eyeballs on the table to see how high they’ll bounce. (They don't bounce, idiot.) She sharply turns her head to look straight back at him. Her gaze falls upon his sorry excuse for a Serum of Second Sight.

 

“Cut them in half first.” She says, just loud enough for him to hear, as the fluid leaks through his clenched fist. “And slice the boomslang skin, don't chop it—otherwise it'll dissolve into powder.”

 

“I didn't ask for your help.” He says, angry at himself for appearing so incompetent.

 

“Yeah, but you need it.” Spektor says, pointing at his cauldron. “That stinks...” Fairchild flips through _Advanced Potion Making_ , stirs the potion counterclockwise after Riddle drops the rest of the eyes in, and, while in mid-stir, vomits right into the cauldron. Riddle is furious.

 

“Useless!” He yells, abruptly pushing her away. He tries to scoop out the vomit with the spoon but it's no use. Slughorn descends upon the scene of the commotion, a startled look on his pudgy face.

 

“Oh dear...” He sighs, “Will someone take Miss Fairchild to the hospital wing?” Penderghast jumps up and escorts Fairchild, who is now weeping into her palms, from the classroom. “Ten points from Slytherin, Tom, for that outburst. You should know never to treat a lady like that. Or anyone, for that matter. You’re Head Boy after all, and it’s your _responsibility_ good example for the rest of the students.”

 

“Right...Sir.” Riddle says stiffly. “I apologize.”

 

“You are to come here straight after dinner and remake that potion.” Slughorn says.

 

“You’re giving me detention?” Riddle is pissed. He's never received detention. Ever.

 

“Don't be late.” Slughorn says, waving his wand to clean up the mess.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

Tom Riddle isn't the only one who must report to the potions classroom after dinner, as it turns out. When he arrives, expecting to find just Slughorn and a room of empty desks, he's certainly surprised to see V. Spektor sitting in her usual spot, cauldron already fired up, ingredients laid out neatly in front of her.

 

“You're stalking me.” Riddle asks, confused to the point of irritation.

 

“You wish.” Spektor smirks without looking up from her copy of _Advanced Potion Making_.

 

“If you expect me to believe you botched your potion as badly I did...” Riddle starts, squinting at the young woman, her shiny dark hair tied up in a green silk ribbon, eyes shadowed from countless sleepless nights. Just then Slughorn waddles in, a bottle clutched in his right hand. He gives it to Spektor, and she slips it into her pocket.

 

“Ah, Tom. I thought it might be better for Miss Spektor to walk you through the potion, and she most graciously agreed. I've assigned you two as partners from now on, and Miss Fairchild will work with Avery, you know, to keep the peace in our classroom and all that.” He says, smiling. “Now get to work. I'll be in my office if you need me.” As soon as the door closes behind Slughorn, Riddle turns to Spektor with a killer look.

 

“He gave you something.” Riddle says, eyeing the bulge in Spektor’s pocket.

 

“Sit down. You're wasting time.”

 

“Don't you dare tell me what to do.” He says, still standing there, towering over her.

 

“You screwed up your potion, made a girl cry, got detention, and now you're going to just stand there and watch while the best potions student in the school does your work for you.” She says coldly. “Some Head Boy.” Riddle has never been talked back to in such a manner. It seriously bothers him that he doesn't intimidate her.

 

“You sure think highly of yourself.” Riddle scoffs.

 

“You know it's true.” Spektor says. He does. Everyone knows it’s true. “Sit down.” He sits. They begin to prepare the ingredients. Spektor handles the eyeballs while Riddle slices the boomslang skin. They work in silence, efficient and precise, and in no time the potion is ready to brew. The finished product, the Serum of Second Sight, is a shimmering light blue. It is beautiful. Riddle gazes into the cauldron, marveling at his, no— _their_ , handiwork. “See, you did it. That wasn't so difficult...”

 

“We make a good team.” Riddle says before he can stop himself.

 

“We do?” Spektor says, raising an eyebrow.

 

“I mean...you'll be a much better partner than that Fairchild girl.”

 

“You're welcome.” They start cleaning up. Then she notices him stop, as if he's about to say something.

 

“What are you up to?” He asks bluntly.

 

“You mean...in general?” She asks, squinting, feigning annoyance at his vague question.

 

“You know what I mean.” He says.

 

“You're the one person I'm not supposed to tell that to...”

 

“And why's that?”

 

“Head Boy...” She says, a devilish smirk creeping across her lips. “You'll have to report me...”

 

“I won't.” He says quickly. “I would never.”

 

“Ok then. Smell me.”

 

“What?” He blushes.

 

“Go on. Take a sniff.” She says, ignoring Riddle's embarrassing reaction, much to his relief. He steps closer to her, until they're only an inch apart at most, and inhales deeply. And then again. Nothing. No scent. No perfume, soap, sweat, or even skin.

 

“I don't smell anything...it's as if...my eyes were closed...I wouldn't even know you were here...” He says. Then he does close his eyes and sniffs again.

 

“Isn't that strange...” She hints.

 

“Inhuman...” He muses. A moment passes before he realizes how close he's standing to her, and takes a step backwards.

 

“You sure know how to give complements.” Her sarcasm isn't lost on Riddle. And neither is the wink she gives him. He can smell himself starting to sweat. He twists the ring on his finger, his nervous tick.

 

“Sorry. You're perfectly human, I'm sure.”

 

“Sometimes I have my doubts.” She mumbles. He asked for clues, but none of this makes much sense. There's nothing he wants more than to run out of there and head straight to the library. But he needs to think up a good exit without leaving the option open for her to tag along.

 

“Don't we all...” He says, his face once more it's usual shade, his voice steady, deep, with its dull angry edge. “Listen, I've got to get going...”

 

“Ok. Have fun.” She says absently. _Have fun_? He shoots her an exasperated look.

 

“Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean...” He mutters to himself as he slings his bag over his shoulder and walks from the room. Glancing back quickly before exiting, he sees her flipping through the textbook, making notes. What a fucking nerd.


	8. I: Girl Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruminations on heartache and potential dates for the Yule Ball.

VIII.  
Girl Gossip  
[Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom | November 1943]

 

* * *

 

 

It's early afternoon and Penelope Fairchild ducks out of History of Magic to fix her hair in the girl's bathroom on the first floor. With appearances to keep up, a quick trip to the bathroom was necessary in between classes—especially with the Yule Ball approaching. Many seventh-years had the same thing on their minds, finding a mate before graduation, and she was certainly part of that group. Not that she had much of a struggle ahead of her. Penelope Fairchild was by far one of the most beautiful girls in the whole school. Men and women alike have fallen prey to her charm, which has earned her the reputation of being quite the heartbreaker. Of those lucky enough to get at least a date with Fairchild, all of them recount the experience of being in her presence as simply sublime, and speculate she's likely part veela. That would make sense. Although it could also be chalked up to her ambition in the arena of love and romance. She is practiced in the art of seduction, as her latest conquest knows first-hand. Edward O'Connor, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, didn't stand a chance against her strange powers. One look and he was done for. Quickly the pair became a power couple, bucking the age-old rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and making an attractive spectacle of it all. They dated for three years before she finally broke it off over the summer. And since returning to school this year, her sights are set on the Head Boy. That would really get O'Connor's goat. He _hated_ Riddle. But that's not her only motive, of course—vanity definitely factors into this. And after all, she deserves to date a Head Boy...I mean _look_ at her.

 

She enters and nearly walks right into Olive Hornby, Hufflepuff, who is hurriedly exiting, as though escaping from some pest. That's right, Fairchild remembers, the ghost of the girl who was killed last year has been hanging around this bathroom. Poor Olive—can't catch a break can she?

 

“Oh, Penelope! Can't even take a piss without being spooked by that git. What did I ever do to deserve this?” Hornby whines.

 

“I'm just glad she's not haunting _me_...” Fairchild says, adding a sympathetic smile. Hornby adjusts the books in her hands, balancing them on her hip.

 

“I mean, don't take this the wrong way. Of course I'm sad she's dead and all, but come _on_. Just leave me alone already! Find someone else to be obsessed with!”

 

“She...can't...” Fairchild says slowly, a little confused.

 

“Well yeah I know that, but...I mean...you know...” Hornby says, then changing the subject, “So you think Riddle's gonna ask you to the Yule Ball?”

 

“I doubt it.” Fairchild's face darkens. “After what happened in potions yesterday...Oh Olive I messed everything up! I don't have a chance...” Before Fairchild could finish the thought, a third person enters the girls bathroom. It's Spektor. She walks right past the two girls, who don't notice her until she's over at the sinks. She twirls the faucet but no water comes out, so she moves to the next one down, where she holds her hands under the hot water.

 

“Watch out, Myrtle's on the prowl.” Hornby shouts in Spektor's direction. She looks over at the two girls standing by the door.

 

“Ghosts can't hurt anybody. I wouldn't be too worried.” Spektor says flatly.

 

“Yeah but when you least expect it, she comes right up behind you and...”

 

“Terrifying.” Spektor interjects. She lathers the soap, crushing tiny bubbles with the weight of water and skin. “Hey Fairchild, you feeling better?”

 

“Yeah I guess.” Fairchild chimes glumly. She's twirling a lock of her golden hair around her index finger coquettishly.

 

“What she means is that she's _devastated_ because now Riddle won't ask her to the Yule Ball because she puked in his cauldron.” Hornby says, grinning. Taking pleasure in others' misfortune was one of Hornby's most notable traits. She's a classic mean girl.

 

“Hmmmm that's too bad...” Spektor dries her hands on her robes, eyes fixed on the sink, carefully keeping her glance from the mirror. “But I can't imagine you wanting to go with him after he pushed you though...”

 

“Oh I don't really mind. I mean, I guess I sorta deserved it...I did puke in the cauldron after all...And he's so _handsome_...and he's _H ead Boy_.” Fairchild slips into a daydream. “I've always wanted to date a Head Boy.”

 

“I think you picked the wrong one.” Hornby chimes in. “He's awful, Fairchild. I heard he docked fifty points from Ravenclaw because he caught George Hawkins laughing at a joke.”

 

“What was the joke about?” Spektor asks.

 

“Does it matter?” Hornby scoffs. “He's such a drag, Penelope. You deserve better. What about Lestrange? You've talked about him before...” Penelope glares at Hornby, shaking her head. Hornby nods apologetically.

 

“You like Lestrange?” Spektor's surprised, she never would've suspected.

 

“He's alright...I guess...” Fairchild sways awkwardly from side to side.

 

“I can tell him, if you want...” Spektor offers. Fairchild is shocked. She's under the impression, as is everyone else, that Lestrange is going to ask Spektor to the ball. It just goes without saying. How could she be so indifferent?

 

“But...then Tom will know...and he'll think I don't like him anymore...”

 

“Get a grip, Penelope!” Hornby steams exasperatedly.

 

“I wouldn't worry too much about it, Penelope.” Spektor says. “Tom will probably ask you.”

 

“You think so?” Fairchild says, her ego beginning to re-inflate.

 

“Of course.” Spektor says.

 

“What about _you_ then? Got someone in mind?” Hornby shifts her attention to Spektor now.

 

“Oh I dunno...” Spektor shrugs. “I wasn't even planning on going...but I guess if someone asks me...Why not, right?”


	9. I: Hallucinations & Hospital Beds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These days, for V Spektor, nothing is as it seems.

IX.  
Hallucinations & Hospital Beds  
[Hogwarts | December 1943]

 

* * *

 

Footsteps and a surprised shriek alerted Spektor to the presence of Professor Slughorn, whose office she was currently robbing of expensive, not to mention dangerous, potion ingredients. A few bottles slip from her hands and smash on the floor as she whips around, hurriedly trying to draw up some sort of reasonable explanation.

 

“Sorry Victoria, didn't expect to see you there. Looking for something?” Professor Slughorn is weirdly unfazed by the fact that he caught one of his students, let alone his golden girl, stealing from his private stores.

 

“I was just...waiting for you to get back...and was...admiring...your stock...” Spektor says, somewhat convincingly, as she replaces the bottles that are still in tact on the nearest shelf.

 

“Impressive, isn't it? You'd be hard pressed to find a selection like this anywhere else, I imagine. Now, what did you...Good God Victoria...are you _alright_?” The alarm in Slughorn's voice is now much more elevated than moments ago. Blood is leaking in tiny rivulets from the corners of the girl's eyes, from her ears, from the corner of her mouth. Usually an uncommonly pretty girl, the figure that stood before him looked positively demonic. Horror's all over his face.

 

“What? Sir?” Spektor observes his shock with mild curiosity.

 

“What have you _done_?” Slughorn whispers, dragging Spektor over to a mirror. One glance in the thing and she clamps her eyelids shut. Now she's elbowing Slughorn in the stomach, trying to get away. “My dear Victoria, look—you're bleeding. Your eyes, they're _bleeding_.”

 

“I…Don’t. Like. Mirrors.” She says emphatically, refusing to look.

 

 

“My dear dear girl...what have you _done_.”

 

“I don't know what you're on about...I haven't _done_ anything.” Spketor wipes her cheek. It is real this time. Not just a hallucination. But what did it mean? She hadn't done anything to cause this. Her experimental potions should be _helping_ with the weird visions, creepy feelings, strange dreams... Maybe Slughorn could help? “I've been seeing it in the mirrors for months. Thought they were just weird hallucinations... But please, Professor...I don't want to go to the hospital wing. I have a feeling they might not...understand...”

 

“I'm afraid _I_ don't quite understand...” Slughorn says, visibly shaken. “The only time I've heard of this sort of thing happening...” He pauses, shakes his head, laughs to himself, “but that's impossible...I shouldn't even say it...”

 

“What is it?” Her voice drops, eyes widening out of fear, coupled with her insatiable curiosity.

 

“Well, it's been said that humans...after a soul's been...well...” Slughorn is resisting even as he's speaking the words. “Forgive me, I shouldn't be discussing this. Especially not with a young woman such as yourself. There is enough darkness in the world without speaking of it.” Spektor's eyes still unnaturally wide, her face fades impossibly pale.

 

“After a soul's been... _what_...professor?” Spektor practically whispers. Professor Slughorn glances around his office nervously.

 

“Well, sort of, you know, tampered...with...” Slughorn says slowly.

 

“How does one’s soul become _tampered with_?” Spektor asks quickly. Slughorn steps toward the ghostly young woman and holds the back of his hand to her forehead to test whether she's feverish. Instead, her skin is cold and clammy to the touch.

 

“My dear girl, I can't imagine why you'd be concerned about that.” Professor Slughorn says, more to console himself than her. “Why don't we go up to the hospital wing...get you some sleeping draught, and have a nice long rest. Have you been sleeping?”

 

“No. No! Please professor, I just need you to answer my question. Then I'll go back to my dormitory and go to sleep. I promise.”

 

“I'm afraid I can't allow that.” And without a moment's pause, he disarms her, takes her by the arm, and escorts her quickly from his office and up to the hospital wing. Once they arrive, Spektor has given up on resisting. Although she's about as tall as Slughorn, he's about three times her size and her strength is just not up to par. Madame Knowkes bustles up to them, sets eyes on Spektor, slumped and sallow, and begins muttering to herself nervously.

 

“Oh dear...oh dear. Well what've we got here? Let's have a look-see old girl, and we'll get you back in tip-top shape as quick as a broomstick.” Madame Knowkes takes Spektor from Slughorn and brings her to a bed all the way in the back of the wing, sitting her down, and beginning to examine her. Slughorn hovers in the background, waiting to hear a snippet of information to disprove his suspicions. “Now tell me what happened.”

 

“I don't know.” She shrugs.

 

“Interesting... Are you sure nobody put a curse on you? Slipped something suspicious in your pumpkin juice?”

 

“I don't know.” Spektor mutters, knowing full well nobody put a curse on her, but deciding it better to leave some room for interpretation. Madame Knowkes has her change into a hospital gown, prepares a sleeping draught, and soon Spektor sinks into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

When she awakes, someone is sitting next to her bedside. Her eyes still weighted and lazy with sleep, she has difficulty telling who is sitting there, but after a moment, she sits up with a start, drawing the sheets up to her shoulders, clutching them tightly in her fists.

 

“Riddle? What are you doing here?” Spektor demands.

 

“I could ask you the same thing, Spektor.”

 

“Please Riddle, I am _not_ in the mood for this.” She whispers furtively.

 

“I heard you were bleeding out your eyes...Figured I'd visit...” He drawls.

 

“Well, now you can see for yourself. I hope your curiosity is sated.” Spektor says bitterly, sinking slightly back down into the bed, eyes narrowed, sheets still pulled up to her nose.

 

“Not even a little bit.” Riddle smirks. Although he's been doing his share of research, and knows a fair bit more about this strange, secretive young woman thanks to the hints she dropped that night in the potions classroom, there are still so many unanswered questions. “Anyway, I brought your books.” He gestures to her bedside table, which is stacked with textbooks.

 

“Thanks.” She says, then, “Wait...you went into my dormitory?”

 

“You're welcome.” The smirk is still fixed on Riddle's face.

 

“Why are you smiling like that?” Spektor demands, squinting at him.

 

“No reason.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I brought you this also.” Riddle hands her the notebook she'd been sketching in that day she let Riddle try the Draught of Dreamlife. Alright then. It all makes sense now. “You sure like to draw. Strangely, towards the end, there seem to be only sketches of one person...”

 

“I can't figure you out.” Spektor hisses.

 

“Maybe I don't want you to.” Riddle says, rising from the chair. They were even now. Sort of. “That Ancient Runes paper is due tomorrow. Two feet of parchment.” He says loudly as he strides out of the hospital wing. Spektor watches his back retreat until the door of the hospital wing swings shut. Did she really draw only sketches of him? She flips through the notebook, and sure enough... But wait, the last drawing isn't hers—it's done in dark green ink, a completely different style. It's a crude doodle of her in her hospital bed. She stares at it for what seems like hours. Riddle had been drawing her as she slept. He'd been sitting there for however long, waiting for her to wake up, and instead of leaving or reading or doing whatever else, he sat there and sketched her. What a fucking creep. There was a note beneath the picture. She squinted to read the small, neat handwriting:

 

 

 _Come to the Yule Ball with me_.

 

 

In true Tom Riddle fashion, it is a demand. She laughs out loud, drawing Madame Knowkes out from her office.

 

“I see you're feeling better, old girl.”

 

“Slightly, yes.” Spektor says, still laughing. She can't seem to stop.

 

“Top notch! Still bleeding though, I see. I'll see what I have to put a stop to that. Back in a flash.” Madame Knowkes bustles back off to her office. When Madame Knowkes comes back, Spektor's still chuckling to herself. “Now tell me what's got you so amused. I simply _must_ know.”

 

“Boys.” Spektor says, and Madame Knowkes gives her a knowing smile.

 

“That one that just left?”

 

“That very one.”


	10. I: A Momentary Lapse in Conciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape should keep his unusually large nose out of other people's business.

X.  
A Momentary Lapse In Consciousness  
[Hogwarts | November 1995] 

 

 

* * *

The room is cold, a single candle flickering in the dusky gloom, casting a shifting shadow upon the wall, the illusion of movement in absolute stillness. The figure is still, breathing slowly through her clenched teeth, as if in great pain. Pinched in her right hand is a dropper, which she'd just emptied into a gaping wound on her left forearm. A dagger lays upon the desk, her own blood still clinging to the blade. She's done it. Healing still needs to be performed, but the wound itself is stable, gets no worse as time elapses. No loss of blood, save for that on the blade itself. The only problem is the pain...

 

A sharp knock at the door does nothing to jolt her out of her state. Her focus is intense, she's inwardly reveling at the accomplishment, one that has the potential to make history, if she ever tells anyone about it. The knock sounds again. This time, she grants the knocker permission to enter, like an automatic response, not given much thought. Severus Snape enters quickly at first, then slows. The cramped office smells like a mixture of mold, candle wax, and...is that firewhisky?

 

“Professor...?” Snape ventures. Her back is to the door, her eyes fixed on the stone wall in front of her. She doesn't turn to face him. “It seems the entire bottle of essence of dittany has gone missing from my stores...” he doesn't have to continue. After quickly surveying the room he catches sight of the bottle in question sitting open on the desk beside her, the dropper still in her hand. “You could've just asked, you know.” He says.

 

“Ask about what?” Professor Spektor responds abruptly, turning around, annoyed by his presence. Her eyes narrow.

 

“The...umm...the dittany...” He says, gesturing to the bottle. Her hand darts to it, screwing the top back on, and holding it out to him. His gaze falls on the gash running up her forearm, just above that weird snake tattoo that looks uncannily like the dark mark.

 

“What, you don't want it now?” She's growing more irritated by the second. Snape grabs the bottle from her hand.

 

“Next time you decide to go shopping in my personal stores, I'd appreciate if you let me know.” Snape says, making no move to exit. He's looking for an apology. Fine.

 

“Right. Sorry.” She says.

 

“Your arm. Would you like me to get Madame Pomfrey to look at that?”

 

“Madame Pomfrey doesn’t know shit about healing.” Professor Spektor says. “I may be famous for being a murderer, but my true talents lie in healing. I think I’ve got this under control.” She says bitterly. Snape laughs uneasily.

 

“Interesting. I never knew…” Snape muses.

 

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” Professor Spektor says dismissively.

 

“I know almost nothing about you.” Snape agrees. “Especially what you were thinking when you jumped off the roof of the astronomy tower a month ago.”

 

“Who told you about that?” She asks, and then shakes her head, and reaches for a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. She takes a generous swig and then offers it to Snape. He looks at the bottle apprehensively. “I haven’t got any cups.” He takes a conservative sip and hands the bottle back to Spektor.

 

“There are much easier ways to kill yourself, you know.” Snape says flatly.

 

“Obviously.” She says. “If that’s what I was trying to do.”

 

“What _were_ you trying to do, then?” Snape furrows his brow.

 

“I was conducting some tests.” She says.

 

That should be vague enough.

 

“What sort of tests?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“These tests wouldn't have anything to do with the other ingredients that have...mysteriously gone missing...from my office...would they?” Snape asks. Spektor starts to smile.

 

“Ten points to Slytherin.” She says. Snape frown wrinkles his great big nose.

 

“I heard you had an aptitude for potions while at Hogwarts...” Snape says.

 

“Nobody is better at potions than I am.” Her tone is dead serious, and she takes another swig of firewhisky. Snape suppresses the urge to laugh. He has quite a high opinion of _himself_ in that department, but he’s curious as to how good she really is.

 

“So you've developed it then?” Snape asks. Spektor's eyes widen.

 

“A potion for preventing the body from sustaining physical harm?”

 

“Well...” Spektor hisses, leaning back in the chair, crossing her arms tight over her chest. “Who told you about _that_?”

 

“He said that's what you were working on before...well...” Snape notices her face grow stiff, lips a thin line. “It was a nasty bargain, really, I think...” Then a look of confusion washes over her face. Her hands fall into her lap.

 

“What are you talking about? What was a nasty bargain?”

 

“What he did to you...you know...how he got you sent to...” Snape is beginning to realize this is news to her. He wants to reel the words back in, but something about the look she's giving him makes him keep going. Her jaw's slackened to the point of appearing unhinged. All her muscles have given up, and she sinks, if possible, even farther back into the hard-backed wooden chair.

 

“No.” She muses aloud. “ _No_. He _wouldn't_ … He was the one who was helping me _hide_...”

 

“I'm sorry.” Snape says quickly. This isn't good. And it quickly gets worse. Before Snape can catch her, she faints clear off the chair and onto the hard stone floor—out cold. He hoists her up and, after opening the small door in the corner that leads to her sleeping quarters, deposits her on the small iron bed near the window. Despite the bruise beginning to spread across the left side of her face, where her skull collided with the floor moments before, he sees her beauty for the first time, finally unmasked by her nasty aura, her face relaxed, serene, as if she's slipped into a pleasant dream. What a mess he's just got himself in... He really shouldn't have meddled.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

A bloodcurdling scream leaks from Professor Umbridge's sleeping quarters, and the woman herself has toppled out of bed, brandishing a fluffy pillow at a large black snake coiled on the edge of her bed. She throws the pillow at the filthy reptile, which doesn't do much of anything except give it something else to tear apart rather than her own precious flesh.

 

“Somebody! Anybody! Help! Come quick! Help me!” She shrieks. After tearing the pillow apart and scattering down feathers all over the room, the snake is nowhere to be found. Umbridge blinks, looking at the spot it was just two seconds ago. It's gone. She tiptoes around the bed, looks underneath, checks the dark corners of the room—nothing. All clear. Did she imagine it? Must have. She puts on her slippers and opens the door to her office, in search of a tonic to sooth her nerves and finds the place ransacked, papers all over the place, every desk drawer pulled out—what an awful mess. At least the decorative kitten plates were safe, she thinks, looking at the walls. Then she sees, on the bare stretch of wall next to the door, a message that makes her faint. Argus Filch, the caretaker, finds her the next morning.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

“What did it say?” Professor Spektor sips the tea Albus Dumbledore just handed her.

 

“Down with the Pink Menace.” Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea.

 

“Heh heh.” Her laughter makes Dumbledore look up.

 

“We haven't had time for a proper talk. I'm afraid I've been rather busy...” Dumbledore says, looking at her through his half-moon spectacles. “If you have a moment, I have a few questions for you.”

 

“I have a question for you first, if you don't mind.” Spektor says. Dumbledore nods. “Back at Grimmauld Place, you said that I was to be given a 'special assignment.' Any intention of ever telling me what that is? Unless this teaching thing is it, which, if that is the case, doesn’t make much sense to me at all, considering you could’ve hired a far more qualified teacher with much less hassle.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Dumbledore says, placing the teacup in its saucer with a delicate clink. “I was hoping you’d be able to share some insight into your old classmate, Tom Riddle. Anything that would help with the Order’s current efforts…”

 

“That’s _it_?” She's a little more than pissed. “I mean, thanks for getting me out of prison and all, but you didn’t need to bust me out of Azkaban to chat with me. Hah. So. Ok, let me get this straight: the great Albus Dumbledore lies to get a murderer released from prison so she can read to a bunch of babies from a textbook and chat about her old...” She catches herself. He raises his eyebrows.

 

“You call yourself a murderer?”

 

“I killed my sister, didn't I? Oh, but that's right. Sisters don't count.” She winks cheekily. A flash of anger crosses his face.

 

“That...was an accident.” Dumbledore says, gravely serious. How does she know about Ariana?

 

“It's about time you're honest with yourself, Albus.” Spektor says, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know, we're not very different...you and me.” Hm. That’s an odd thought, and the more she thinks about it, the odder it becomes. They really are quite similar.

 

“My dear girl.” Dumbledore shakes his head, voice dripping with condescension. “Whatever you've heard about the incident with my sister has likely been blown far out of proportion. It was my friend who cast the spell that killed her, not me.” He sighs like the ancient old man he is.

 

“So you want to know about Tom, then?” She sighs. Dumbledore nods. There's this awful feeling bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, like she's aware she's making a terrible mistake. But the information Snape gave her last night has ignited a small fire of revenge within her, and here’s a convenient way to satisfy that. She won’t say anything personal, or detailed. Just enough to appear as though she’s willing to participate. Could help, in the end. “Right then. Where should I start...?”

 


	11. I: The Yule Ball, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V and Tom go on a date to the Yule Ball. Yes, a _date_ date.

XI.  
The Yule Ball Pt. 1  
[Hogwarts, December 1943]

 

* * *

 

There's no place more beautiful than Hogwarts castle during Christmas. The halls and stairways are strung with pine garland, massive trees twinkling with enchanted candles, festive ornaments glittering in the Great Hall, and mistletoe hanging sneakily above thresholds, catching students and teachers alike off guard. This isn't any ordinary mistletoe, it's charmed mistletoe, and those caught underneath it are forced to kiss whoever they are unlucky (or lucky) enough to encounter beneath it. You can imagine what a commotion this tends to create...

 

It's the night of the ball and Penelope Fairchild still hasn't been asked by anybody yet. Not for lack of interest—most students consider her an unattainable goal, you know, someone best not to bother asking for fear of rejection. But she's holding out hope for Riddle to ask her. Little does she know he's not one to leave anything to the last minute, and has already asked Spektor. Lestrange, on the other hand, always leaves everything to the last minute, and runs to catch up to Spektor as she's walking up one of the moving staircases.

 

“V, wait!” Lestrange gasps. He jumps on the staircase she's on as it swings to the left, hands on his knees, panting slightly.

 

“I....uh...the Yule Ball's tonight!”

 

“Yes, it is.” She says, knowing full well what was coming next, and not looking forward to dealing with the consequences.

 

“How about you go with me?” He says, casually now, standing up at full height.

 

“No thanks.” She says.

 

“Come on—you can't hide in the dungeons forever! Come out and have a little fun, eh?” Lestrange says, punching her playfully in the arm.

 

“Someone's already asked me.” She says.

 

“Oh.” Lestrange says, his face drooping along with his playful mood. “Well then. Who you going with?”

 

“You should ask Penelope.” She's walking up the stairs now, away from Lestrange, onto the third floor landing.

 

“Fairchild? Nobody's asked her yet?” Genuine surprise in Lestrange's voice.

 

“She might still be in the Great Hall if you get a move on.” Spektor says over her shoulder, then disappears into the shadows of the third floor corridor. Lestrange bounds down the stairs, back towards the Great Hall. Fairchild is a decent second, but he's pissed that he didn't think to ask Spektor sooner. Who the hell beat him to it, he wants to know.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

Penelope Fairchild breezes into the Slytherin girl's dormitory after dinner to find V. Spektor and Julie Pembroke already getting ready. Pembroke's got her dress laid out on her bed, a saucy red number, just low cut enough to really showcase her well-endowed upper half. She's asked Spektor to help her with her hair, which she's presently occupied with.

 

“Guess who asked me to the ball?” Fairchild says dreamily.

 

“Your Head Boy?” Pembroke ventures hopefully.

 

“Sadly, no...” Fairchild says, opening her trunk, taking out a garment wrapped carefully in tissue paper, and laying it on her bed. “His best friend, Lestrange...” She says as she unfolds the tissue paper to reveal a shimmering ice-blue gown. There's a twinge of disappointment to her voice, but it's well masked by her blissful countenance.

 

“Next best thing, I suppose.” Pembroke offers.

 

“You're going with Kathleen?” Fairchild struggles to remember.

 

“Just as 'friends.'” Pembroke says with a wink. That's what she has to say, if she doesn't want the wrath of a castle full of bigots to come down on her. If there's one thing that most witches and wizards of the day just won't tolerate, it's homosexuality. But Julie Pembroke and Kathleen Hannigan are probably the most successful gay couple in the school at flying below the radar. They wish they didn't have to, and maybe someday they won't have to. But for now, they're just very good friends, depending on who's asking.

 

“And you're going too, V?” Fairchild asks, a pot-stirring grin on her sunkissed face.

 

“Yeah.” Spektor says through her teeth, which are clamped down on a bobby pin. Her hands all up in Pembroke's hair, applying a pomade to give it more shine and hold, before she starts with the pin curls.

 

“She won't tell me who she's going with.” Pembroke teases.

“Hmmm....I bet it's....no....it couldn't be.....Edward O'Connor!”

 

“Are you kidding?” Spektor says, still through her teeth. “He's going with McGonagall.”

 

“Really?” Fairchild whirls around. Spektor winds a strand of Pembroke's hair and secures it in place with the pin.

 

“What do you care? You dumped him.” Spektor says. One more pin to go, then she waves her wand over Pembroke's hair and the whole thing sets in seconds flat. She then turns her attention to her own hair, taking it down out of the towel sitting atop her head like a turban. Fairchild turns on the radio, and teenage heartthrob Ronnie Warbler's dulcet tones serenade them as they continue to get ready.

 

All done up, Fairchild looks like a fairy. The dress lends an ethereal quality to her already uncommon beauty, her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes shining brightly, cheeks delicately rouged.

 

“Gotta run, see you ladies there!” She says happily as she exits the dormitories. Pembroke's just finished as well, and quickly scoots out the door to meet up with Kathleen in front of the Ravenclaw common room. Spektor's hair is perfect—big dark loose curls resting like clouds on her shoulders, soft and weightless. She's applying her signature lipstick, a deep rose, and carefully traces around the rims of her eyes with thick black eyeliner, drawing it up into wings at the corners. Unlike the other two girls, Spektor's opted for more subtle attire—a deep green floor-length velvet dress, long sleeves, a slight train in the back where the hem drags along the floor. Very regal. Practically ancient. The neck is cut in a deep v, although it doesn't seem as revealing as Pembroke's because, quite honestly, Spektor doesn't have much to show off. On her bedside table is a necklace, a green eye framed in silver, on a delicate silver chain, which she fastens around her neck. She slips on a pair of black heels, takes a long swig from her flask, and exits the dormitories, walking carefully down hallway to the common room, where a tall, dark figure waits in front of the fireplace, studying the flames impatiently, trying hard not to pace, to fidget, and instead standing still as stone.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

Tom Riddle turns around abruptly as Victoria Spektor approaches. The whiff of rosemary and lavender he catches is unexpected, but he knows it has to be her. She is the one he's waiting for, after all. But he isn't prepared for this moment. She's the same person, of course, and he knows full well what she looks like—how could he forget? But seeing her there, walking towards him, in clothing not only different from her school uniform but also incredibly _elegant_ , he feels his heart picking up the pace inside the cage of his chest.

 

Drawing closer, the warm light from the fireplace is casting Riddle in a golden glow, softening the features of his face somewhat. He's wearing a simple black suit, black shirt, and, interestingly, no tie. God damn.... She takes a deep breath, steadies herself, tries to keep her head level, her pulse steady.

 

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” She says, a nervous edge to her voice that she wished she didn’t let slip through.

 

“I was starting to worry you'd changed your mind...” He says, a small smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. “Shall we?” He holds out his hand. She hesitates for a split second, then takes it, her own hand feeling small and cold inside his. As he escorts her out of the common room his palms are sweating and there's nothing he can do about it. They walk down the corridors, both quietly shut up in their own minds, until a nagging thought prompts Spektor to speak up.

 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” she asks her silent companion.

 

“What?”

 

“Why did you ask me to come with you to this? It was rather...unexpected.”

 

“Well, since I'm Head Boy, I'm obligated to go...and I needed a date. Besides, everyone's bringing dates to this.”

 

“Since when do you care about what everyone else is doing?”

 

“Since when do you care so much about my decisions?”

 

“Fine. But why me?”

 

“I dunno, Spektor. I guess I...don't really mind spending time with you...”

 

“Yeah sure. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer...”

 

“We're enemies?” Tom stops abruptly.

 

“You tell me.”

 

“If you were my enemy, you would know.”

 

“Ok...”

 

“What do you actually want to ask me?”

 

“Well...Is this a date? A real _date_?”

 

“What else would it be?” He snaps.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Yes, Spektor....This is a date.” Riddle says after a long pause.

 

“A _date_ date?”

 

“Bloody hell—yes, Victoria Spektor. I asked you on a _date_. And may I remind you that you said _yes_ , so I don't have the slightest idea what you're confused about. If you don't want to be my date, then you can go back to the common room.”

 

“No—no, it's fine. Good. Yes. Good. Not a problem. Glad we cleared that up.” Spektor fights back a smile. Riddle rolls his eyes. They continue the rest of the way in silence.


	12. I: The Yule Ball, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpectedly lovely evening commences.

XII.  
The Yule Ball Pt. 2  
[The Great Hall | December 1943]

 

* * *

 The entrance hall is full of excited, chattering students decked out to the nines in whatever finery they could drudge up from the depths of their trunks. Riddle and Spektor pause at the top of the stairs briefly before descending into the din. He's still holding her hand, albeit stiffly, formally, and she, feeling him tense up, gives him a small squeeze for reassurance. More of an impulse really. He cocks his head sideways ever so slightly, glancing at her, that small smile cropping up again. There is something sad about it. The smile, that is. Why were they both so uncomfortable? So nervous? What was there to be nervous about? Underneath the surface layer of weird tension something does feel right, to be there, together, descending the staircase, into a sea of their peers. Whatever “right” means. Perhaps it’s more like a shift, something settling into its proper place.

 

Nobody notices them as they weave their way to the door of the Great Hall. It's a nice feeling, one that both parties equally take comfort in. Flashbulbs crack. Friends pose, laugh, linking arms and goofing off. Spektor catches sight of Penelope Fairchild tossing her hair over her shoulder, throwing her head back in captivating, albeit over-dramatic, laughter. It's plain to see Lestrange is quickly falling under her spell. And there's Olive Hornby with a sour look on her face, her date, Will Braxton, a Hufflepuff as well, distressed and babbling an apology. Someone should've warned him Hornby has very high expectations. Avery's ambling down the stairs with a girl practically twice his height—not difficult to manage, as Avery's of the short-and-stout variety. V sort of misses being his potions partner, if only to be able to scold him when he does something bizarre like shove tarantula legs up his nose. Then she glances up at her current potions partner. She's walking so close she can see the pores in his smooth pale skin, the individual hairs prickling at the back of his neck. He's grasping her hand like she's a shield, a barrier between him and everyone else. That's how it feels, at least. And she isn't completely wrong.

 

“Ah, Tom! There you are. Good. Now we can begin.” Headmaster Dippet is standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall, along with Minerva McGonagall and Edward O'Connor. O'Connor politely smiles at the two of them as they approach. Although McGonagall turns her head in their direction, it's more as though she's looking straight through them.

 

“Begin what?” Riddle asks. Dippet gives him a look of utter confusion.

 

“Begin the ball, what else! The Head Boy and Head Girl always have the first dance. Now you'll go first with...it's Victoria isn't it?...and then Minerva and Edward will follow...”

 

“I thought I only had to be here for the Yule King and Queen thing...” Riddle says, frowning.

 

“Have you never been to one of these, boy?” Dippet laughs. Riddle scowls. Obviously. “Well it's just one dance. I'm sure it won't be that unbearable.” Dippet jokes, clapping him on the back. Riddle looks like he's ready to hex him.

 

“I have to go out there, in front of all those people, and _dance_ with you?” Spektor whispers in his ear. So _cheeky_ , he thinks, it's a wonder she's on such good terms with people. Why doesn't anyone ever put her in her place?

 

“Don't get too excited.” His response is definitely sarcastic.

 

“Here we go!” Dippet pips excitedly, flinging open the doors and allowing the students to enter at last. Once they've all gone inside, the orchestra strikes up and a path is cleared for the procession. Riddle juts his elbow out and Spektor loops her arm through. She can feel the anxiety leaking from him, despite his confident, almost militant, stance. It's no mystery that he hates surprises.

 

The house tables have been cleared out for the occasion and replaced by smaller circular tables, which are dotted around the outskirts of the room. Each is draped with a crimson table cloth and adorned with a miniature evergreen in the center, skirted with a wreath of branches scented with cinnamon and clove. The enchanted ceiling above them is sparkling with a million brilliant stars, and at least twenty-five full-size evergreens have been brought in from the forest, all decked out and spectacularly fragrant. There is a comforting warmth to the room, despite the size and commotion.

 

Once the couples reach the middle of the floor, Dippet signals for the orchestra to begin, and the first dance commences. Riddle turns to face Spektor and bows rigidly. She replies with a small curtsey. Then he confidently takes her hand and places his other on her waist. She flinches slightly at his touch, not because it's unwelcome, but precisely the opposite. Stop being stupid, she tells herself. She places her hand delicately on his shoulder. It's a mid-tempo waltz, nothing too difficult, thankfully. Spektor allows herself to be swept up like a feather, effortlessly gliding across the floor in Riddle's sturdy arms. He's holding his breath practically the entire time, concentrating intensely on every step, keenly aware of all the eyes following him...All the better though. See—Tom Riddle goes to parties, dances with girls, is just your average person...Nothing out of the ordinary. Spektor glances over at McGonagall and O'Connor, engaged in a jerky one-two-three that was almost unbearable to watch. After what seems like hours but is really only a minute or two, the rest of the guests are signaled to join in. Once incorporated into the fold the crowd, Spektor ventures a glance up at her partner.

 

“I didn't know you were a _dancer_.” She teases.

 

“I'm not.” He says dismissively. Then, “Thank god that's over with.”

 

“Yeah really.” She says. Then, “Not that it was awful though...Dancing with you, I mean. You're good...” She babbles. He surveys her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

 

“Thanks.” He says. “You're not bad...”

 

“Would you say we...make a good team?” It slips out of her mouth before she can stop it. And just like that, his cheeks turn as red as her lips. She can't help but blush also. This is not happening. Absolutely not. Stupid cheeky good-for-nothing flirt, she scolds herself.

 

“A bit warm in here, isn't it?” He asks uncomfortably, looking away, glancing around the room for the first time since they've arrived, as if looking for the closest exit.

 

“I wouldn't say no to a pumpkin juice...” She says. He nods in agreement. She leads him through the crowd to the refreshment table, where they find Julia Pembroke and Kathleen Hannigan hanging around, partaking in some cranberry tarts. A delicate crown of woven holly branches sits atop Kathleen's bright red hair. She's always struck Spektor as having an elf-like look about her.

 

“Aha so the mystery is solved.” Pembroke chuckles, nudging Hannigan. Spektor rolls her eyes. “Could you pass me two of those pumpkin juices?” She asks Pembroke, who is standing in front of the goblets. She hands two to Spektor, smirking all the while.

 

“You two actually look quite good together.” Hannigan says, her voice breathy like a wooden flute, “How long have you been going out then?”

 

“We're not.” Spektor and Riddle say at exactly the same time, with the same degree of conviction.

 

“Alright then.” Hannigan says, and she and Pembroke giggle. “Sure, whatever you say.” Riddle's begun to wander down to the other end of the refreshment table.

 

“Sorry, excuse me.” Spektor says, inching away.

 

“Go on then, go find your lover boy.” Says Pembroke, shooing her away. Spektor scowls and stalks off to where Riddle's standing, at the far end of the refreshment table. He picks up a cauldron cake and, when he notices her approaching, offers it to her. She accepts it and takes a bite.

 

“So what's this Yule King and Queen thing then?” Spektor asks.

 

“Haven't you ever been to one of these things before?” He asks sourly, repeating Dippet's earlier comment to him.

 

“Are you kidding? I probably wouldn't be here right now if you didn't ask me.” She says. Was she slipped a truth serum or something? Because she's practically spewing this stuff. Riddle raises his eyebrows, snapping, if only for a second, out of his mood.

 

“Hmmm. I heard you turned Lestrange down. He was rather beat up about it really...”

 

“You didn't tell him you asked me? I thought you two were friends?”

 

“You didn't tell him I asked you? I thought _you two_ were friends.” Riddle smirks.

 

“Alright. I get it. What's your point?” Spektor's fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.

 

“The Yule King and Queen are chosen by the students at the end of the dance. It's a popularity contest, really. McGonagall and I have the 'honor' of crowning them. There's a little ceremony. Everyone claps.”

 

“You can't just change the subject like that.” Spektor snaps.

 

“Do you want to have another dance?” Riddle asks.

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“Another dance. Yes or no?” He almost sounds angry.

 

“Um. Sure.” She says, pleased, but also confused. But they are at a dance after all. That is what they are here to do. He offers her his hand, which she takes, this time without as much hesitation, and he leads her back onto the dance floor. Without the pressure and formality of the previous dance, he quickly relaxes, and she finds herself doing the same. Whatever anger or moodiness that was building up inside him is starting to erode.

 

“Are you beginning to _enjoy_ yourself?” She scoffs, smiling.

 

“Isn't that the point?” He says, cracking a smile himself.

 

“That's what I hear.” She says. He twirls her, hair a dark cloud around her face, and when she comes back around she locks eyes with him. Maybe she's picked up a thing or two from Fairchild. Or maybe she should give herself more credit.

 

“And are you... _enjoying_ yourself?” He asks. She doesn't answer—just gives a small nod. The music slows. Riddle draws her closer, close enough to get a real nose-full of that rosemary lavender perfume she is wearing, to feel her breath on his neck. She can feel his heart beating fast.

 

“You're rushing.” He whispers in her ear. It's true. She takes a deep breath and slows a bit.

 

Then, something within compels her to lower her head, to rest it on his shoulder. She breathes in, noting his scent—dust and ink, with a faint hint of woodsmoke. His heart beats faster. For a few minutes everything is a dream. Then an annoying voice over Spektor's shoulder draws them back into reality.

 

“How long has _this_ been going on then, hmm?” It's Lestrange, and he's pissed. Of course he is. Why can't people mind their own business? Must everyone over-react about _everything_? Spektor jerks around, Riddle stiffens, his mouth drawn into a thin frown.

 

“What?” Spektor shrugs.

 

“You could've just _told_ me.” Lestrange huffs. “You think it's fun to just lead me on?”

 

“Lead you on?” Spektor repeats, confused. “Was I...?”

 

“Back off, Lestrange.” Riddle orders. Lestrange raises his eyebrows.

 

“I don't have to do what you say!” Lestrange spits.

 

“You don't?” Riddle says, dangerously casual, raising his eyebrows. Lestrange considers that for a moment. He can't fight Riddle. Nobody can. He's seen what Riddle's done to those who try.

 

“It's not like it matters...” Lestrange says offhandedly. “Why should I care who Spektor's fucking?” A dangerous silence falls. It takes Lestrange a moment to realize the depth of the shit is he's just stepped in. Before he realizes what's happening, a fist is colliding with the side of his face. He stumbles back and falls flat on his ass. His left eye is throbbing. Squinting up at the figure standing over him, he almost wets himself. It's Victoria Spektor, her knuckles bleeding, her lips twisted in what looks like a grin. Perhaps it's just the angle he's seeing her from. She offers a hand to help him up. He takes it eagerly. Once he's standing on his feet she clocks him again, this time in the jaw. He staggers back, cupping his jaw in his hands. Those around them are starting to back away now, clearing the space for what seems like a fight. But this isn't really a fight. Lestrange contemplates a counter attack, but he doesn't really want to fight back. She's just standing there, hands at her sides, watching him. No. He doesn't deserve this. They've known each other almost their entire lives. They're meant to be together. The wound to his pride is perhaps worse than the injuries he's sustained to his face, and pride, in the end, wins out. He steps forward, reaches his hand inside the pocket of his dress robes, and is just about to draw his wand, when Riddle steps forward, shielding her from the potential attack.

 

“Careful...” Riddle's tone is venomous. “If you draw your wand, Lestrange, I can guarantee you'll regret it.” Lestrange freezes, his eyes wide, panicked. Nobody moves.

 

“Go wash up. You look awful.” Spektor advises. Lestrange shoots her a thoroughly wounded look and makes a hasty exit. The small crowd of onlookers disperse. Riddle turns to Spektor, who's glancing down at her hands. She can't tell if the blood is hers or Lestrange's.

 

“Remind me to never offend you.” He says. She looks up and laughs.

 

“I don't think I'll need to remind you.” She says, then heaves a sigh. “Honestly, I've been wanting to do that for a long time.”

 

“You look pleased.” He says. She winks. They're walking back towards the refreshment table when they're suddenly both rooted to the ground where they stand. Spektor nudges him, pointing above their heads at a clump of mistletoe dangled by the hand of Peeves, the resident poltergeist and insufferable troublemaker.

 

“Oh go pick on someone else, you tosser.” Riddle shouts angrily at Peeves. The poltergeist just sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry in Riddle's face. You could say he has a bit of a fondness for tormenting Riddle, and there's nothing he can do about it. Riddle then shifts his gaze to Spektor, standing by his side, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. Black, actually. Her eyes are black. He never noticed. How strange. He could’ve sworn they were gray.

 

“I have to _kiss_ you now?” She raises an eyebrow.

 

“Unfortunately.” He says, turning fully to face her. He cautiously reaches out a hand and brushes her hair to the side. She tilts her chin up, and after what feels like eternity, his lips are on hers, so softly, a very restrained kiss. Then he breaks away, eyes still locked on her, frowning slightly as he studies her. He immediately wants to kiss her again—although he has no idea whether she would accept another. And for some reason that matters. In her expression there are no clues. She appears to be lost in a thought.

 

Peeves disappears along with the mistletoe to go torment some other unsuspecting couple. Time starts to creep back up to normal speed again, but they're both still stuck in this weird state, physically able to move now, but not bothering to. He traces the edge of her face with his thumb, then feels her arms reach up to drape around his shoulders—an action prompting a sudden sinking feeling inside his chest. She moves in swiftly, her lips pressing against his, lingering a bit before pulling away.

 

“Well then...” He muses. She winks. His cheeks flash scarlet again. He moves in for another kiss, but she places a finger to his lips.

 

“Not here.” She whispers. He nods.


	13. I: The Yule Ball, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the night draws to a close, things start to fall into place.

XIII.  
The Yule Ball Pt. 3  
[The Grounds | December 1943]

 

* * *

 

Now this whole thing that's started between Victoria Spektor and Tom Riddle is enough to tilt not only their own lives, but, down the line, the entire wizarding world, off course—and in a way neither of them can fully expect just yet. It's one of those alignments that, in hindsight, when you examine the probabilities and alternate courses, you think to yourself _what if this never happened_? _Was this the tipping point_? Surely Tom Riddle was destined for greatness, his own resourcefulness and motivation was enough to get him there, but how important was this new friend of his in determining how things turned out? History books will say she was irrelevant, that they might have known each other in school, but that she was already working for Grindelwald, likely through her father’s connections, and had little if anything to do with the young Dark Lord. This, however, couldn’t be farther from the truth.

 

There's a warmth in the great hall so thick it sticks with the pair through the entrance hall and out onto the grounds. Snow is falling softly from the winter sky, and they tread slowly through the drifts at their feet. There are a few other students outside as well, getting some air, among other things. Spektor shivers a bit, the winter wind finally penetrating the aura of warmth surrounding her. Riddle takes off his jacket and she slips it on, drawing her arms in close to her body as he in turn draws her closer to him.

 

“So I was doing some research in the library about a rather esoteric subject and I was wondering if you couldn't maybe...help me figure something out...” He asks casually. She immediately knows what he's on about.

 

“Maybe I can...Depends on what you know.” She says slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground to avoid twisting her ankle on an unexpected patch of ice.

 

“Well...” He says, grinning, “I found out some interesting things about devils...thought you'd be rather well-versed on the subject...”

 

“Not as much as I should be...” She starts.

 

“...Seeing as you are one.” He finishes for her. She's trying to think of what to say next, although really, there isn't much she needs to say at all. The only sound is snow crunching underfoot.

 

“Nobody knows.” She says, stopping, fixing him with a penetrating stare. There's fire in those dark eyes. He can feel it.

 

“Except me.” He states. She nods. “Not even your family?”

 

“Well of course my father knows. It's his fault.” She says, as though stating the obvious. Riddle's waiting expectantly for her to continue. “Apparently my father was involved with a deviless who worked at the Embassy in London (I'm sure you were at least able to find some info on that), before he met Victoria, who I've always thought was my mum. Just found out this past summer, actually.”

 

“You just found out?”

 

“Got into an argument with my mum while she was drunk and it just sort of slipped out.” She says. Then, in a high-pitched wispy voice mimicking her mother's, “At least you're not my child, what a horrible thing, to be responsible for giving birth to _you_.” She laughs to herself. Then, in her own voice again, “I don't even remember what we were arguing about. I think she didn't like my attitude or something...”

 

“So you're half-devil, half-witch.” Riddle works it out in his head. A half-blood, albeit a more sinister mixture, but still, a half-blood like him.

 

“An abomination.” She says. “That's what They call me. And that's what your lot would call me too if they knew. Nobody can ever know. At least until I get it sorted out...”

 

“Sorted out?” Riddle's eyes light up.

 

“I've been doing some research. It's damn near impossible to find anything useful in the library here—as you've noticed I'm sure—and now that Slughorn probably won't give me any more permission slips for the Restricted Section after our...incident...” She drifts off, consumed with a thought. Riddle waits for her to resume, listening intently. “He suspects something. I know it. He's probably the only Hogwarts professor who'd know anything about any of this anyway...except maybe Dumbledore, but I don't think he likes me at all...”

 

“That's not surprising. He's definitely got his favorites. McGonagall, for one.” Riddle says.

 

“You think we could—” She starts, but then stops abruptly.

 

“I like they way you think.” He smirks.

 

“But if I use the imperius curse on McGonagall I'll be expelled, Tom.” She says.

 

“Who said anything about using the imperius curse?” He says.

 

“Even if we used polyjuice potion...it's too risky. Really now, why would McGonagall ever ask Dumbledore about soul extraction?”

 

“What now?”

 

“Oh come on—I thought you did your research.” She scoffs. He thinks for a moment, running through all the facts he's managed to compile about people— er...creatures like her. One book on defensive magic detailed how to spot a devil trying to blend in with a group of humans. He tries to recall the passage:

  

_Devils rarely intermingle with witches and wizards, preferring to surround themselves with their own kind. However_ _, they do occasionally venture out of the Underworld, and it  behooves wizards to be able to recognize them in order to take the proper precautions. These beings are charming, tricky, and at first glance appear surprisingly like their human counterparts. One easy way to spot one is to look at their hands—if you count six fingers you're in trouble. Next, the eyes will be completely black, with just a small bit of whites visible, if any. These beings also have no scent of their own, but this is a trait that can be easily covered up by perfume. Be on guard if you notice any of these signs, as you are dealing with an extremely dangerous magical creature that, despite having many similarities to humans, is missing one fundamental element: a soul._

  

“You're a devil with a soul. An impossibility.” He muses, feeling her starting to shiver.

 

“An abomination.” She mutters.

 

“No.” He stops abruptly, turning to face her. The wind blows up loose snow, sending it swirling around them, a thousand tiny icicles slicing at their skin. “Not an abomination—an exception.”

 

“That's a very... _nice_...thing to say.” Is he being genuine? It's hard to tell.

 

“Why would you wish to be average?” He says. She rolls her eyes. That's not it at _all_.

 

“No, you don't understand. There's something very _wrong_. I feel it. Like my body's fighting against itself, trying to...destroy itself or something. It's painful.” She says. “This has nothing to do with what other people think. I could really care less. I just want to be left alone, really.” She pauses, thinking for a moment of the sheer absurdity that she's standing outside on a cold December night talking about this with Tom Riddle of all people. “I just want to be ok.” She says. The mood's gotten so heavy it's unbearable. He nods, frowning, and...is that a look of pity she detects on his face? No. That won't do. After a moment she starts to back away from him. “So you know my secret...” She says in a slight singsong. “Now I'll have to kill you.”

 

“You're kidding, right?” Riddle responds a little too seriously. She winks. He wishes she'd stop doing that. It's too much.

 

“We're still friends then?” She says, more seriously now.

 

“Again, are you kidding?”

 

“No. Wait, what? Are you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Friends?”

 

“What else?” She arches an eyebrow. “I stole cake for you...I went to this stupid ball with you...”

 

“Listen, Victoria...” He says, reaching out to take her hand, then pausing briefly to study it—her veins almost black beneath her skin, like thin inky rivers cutting through white marble. He keeps calling her Victoria, which she finds weirdly charming. Although she hates it when anyone else calls her that—preferring just the initial V.—when he says her full name it feels very intimate. She's waiting for him to continue. Then he meets her eyes again—reading her gaze as more greedy than affectionate.

 

“Yes?” She nods, offering encouragement.

 

“I'm...quite...fond of you...and if my suspicions are...correct...” He says, his grip tightening.

 

“They are.” Spektor confirms.

 

“Good. So we've cleared that up...” Despite his calm tone, his cheeks are reddening by the second. “Right...I don't really know what I'm supposed to do...now that I've told you that...”

 

“You'll have to kill me, I suppose.” She says. He blanches.

 

“That was a joke.” She quickly clarifies. Is she hitting a nerve? Probably. He exhales through a nervous laugh. “We're even, is what I mean. I told you a secret...you told me one...although I suppose yours is not really that much of a secret...”

 

“Oh come on.” Riddle scoffs. “I suppose I'm like an open book to you, then?”

 

“Well...” She says with a mischievous grin.

 

“Victoria Spektor if you read my diary _one more time_ I swear I'll...” He reaches down, grabs a handful of snow, and brandishes it threateningly.

 

“You'll what?” Spektor taunts. Riddle laughs a high, cold laugh, and lobs the snow right in her face. She shivers, her mouth falling open in shock, wiping snow out of her eyes. Then, without hesitating, she grabs a handful of snow and launches it at Riddle. Serves him right.

 

“Now look what you've started.” He says, forming a large ball. She gets up, attempting to run away, but the snowball hits her square in the back and she tumbles into the snowbank. He runs over and bends down to try and help her up. Instead she grabs his arm and pulls him down into the snow with her, shoving a fluffy chunk of it in his face, cackling impishly all the while. He sits up, roughly wiping the snow off, and glares at Spektor. She's still laughing, pointing at him. And for some strange reason he begins to laugh as well. They're side by side on the snowbank now. A trickle of blood snakes from her nostril and he wipes it away. He didn't mean to hurt her, really.

 

“You know, it's almost as if you _want_ me to read it...” She muses. “It's not like you're trying to make it difficult...” He doesn't say anything. Hmmmm. “Anyway, I've got a spell you can use to...secure it.” She says.

 

“What's the point if you know how it works?” He asks.

 

“I'll show you. You'll like it.” She says, staring up at the sky.

 

“Well...then, I've got something for you.” He says, propping himself up on one elbow.

 

“You do?”

 

“Come here.” He says. She scoots even closer, so close she can feel his breath warm her face. And suddenly his lips are upon hers, softly at first, as though testing the waters, and then he dives in. He envelops her, his body pressed close against hers, fitting as though they were cut from the same stuff. Her kiss is like a long sigh finally being released—his, a desperate grappling, his lips clinging to hers as though his life depends on it. Perhaps it does? Spektor is surprised by the intensity, but not put off by it. She ruffles his hair a bit before delicately draping her arms around his neck. She breaks away from his lips and plants tiny kisses along his jaw, then his neck. A shiver shoots up his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. She retraces her path, now to his ear, where she whispers,

 

“A bit cold out here, isn't it?” She says.

 

“We should...go back inside...” He frowns, trying to catch his breath. He tries to move but she holds him still just a moment longer, locking eyes, placing another kiss on his lips, which he returns, before rising to his feet. She takes his hand, which he's extended, and he pulls her up out of the snow. After walking a bit she stumbles and slips on a patch of ice. He catches her just before she falls, and once she's steady on her feet again, he offers her his jacket to keep warm, which she gladly accepts. Once back up at the castle he brushes the clumps of snow out of her hair, and wipes away a bit of smudged lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

 

“If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were quite the gentleman, Tom.” She says cheekily.

 

“An eye for an eye, Victoria.” He says, and, following her example, he winks.

 

They're walking through the entrance hall now. A few clusters of students are hanging about, the ball still going strong in the great hall, adjacent.

 

“What the hell happened to you?” Pembroke snorts, catching sight of Spektor as the pair try to slip by unnoticed.

 

“Don't go outside, it's treacherous.” Spektor says, not stopping to converse further. Hair all a mess—she looks like she's been swept up in a blizzard. Riddle looks only marginally less ruffled. But Pembroke notices whose jacket Spektor's wearing, the smudge of lipstick on Riddle's cheek, and smirks.

 

“Treacherous.” Pembroke repeats as the pair fade into the crowd.

 

 

∆         ∆         ∆

 

 

Spektor's nipped off to the girl's bathroom to try to put herself back together. With shivering hands she turns the hot water tap, releasing the steaming liquid into porcelain sink. She slides her hands under the stream, feeling the warmth start to radiate back to the rest of her body. Although she would normally avoid it, she chances a glance up at the mirror. At first it's fine, just her average reflection, and oh boy is her hair a sight. She waves her wand over her head in a sweeping circular motion, and her scraggly curls are once again bouncy and lustrous. She studies herself for just a moment longer, until she notices her teeth beginning to elongate, forming sharp points. Quickly she turns her head away, running her fingers along her teeth, feeling their smooth flat edge and breathing a sigh of relief. The new potion is working quite well. The side effects are not as pleasant as the draught of dreamlife, but it gets the job done. No more creepy bleeding at least. But what's up with the mirrors, she still hasn't figured that out.

 

As she's leaving she encounters a group of first-years entering the toilets, who stand aside to let her pass. Behind her back she can hear them whispering.

 

_Was that...you know...?_

 

_Who?_

 

_The one that just knocked out that Slytherin bloke?_

 

_Yeah. That her?_

 

_Think so._

 

_You know what I heard?_

 

_What?_

 

Spektor hangs around the entrance to listen. Even though they're whispering, the acoustics in the bathroom do wonders for amplification.

 

_I heard she's got a thing for Ol' Slughorn._

 

_Ewwww stop no way._

 

_Apparently she's always in his office. Sometimes leaving after curfew..._

 

The first years have a good giggle over this thought. Spektor shrugs and walks back to the Great Hall. Stupid first years. She finds Riddle with his arms folded, leaning against the stone wall, eyes scanning the room, a stern look on his face.

 

“Looking for someone?” She says, after sneaking up on him. He actually jumps.

 

“You bloody sneak...” He hates surprises. Although he is beginning to grow fond of hers.

 

“Aha—my girl!” Spektor hears Professor Slughorn exclaim as he approaches from across the room. “Honestly, Victoria, this is the last place I'd think to find _you_.” He chuckles, beaming. Seems he's dipped into the holiday spirits. Then he notices Riddle. “Well well, aren't you two quite the pair. You'll have to invite me to the wedding! Haha!” Thankfully, Dippet has just ascended the podium, signaling that it's time for the crowning ceremony. Riddle excuses himself with a curt nod and disappears into the crowd.

 

“I think you embarrassed him.” Spektor says.

 

“I think it's about time. I worry about him sometimes...a bit too serious, if you know what I mean.” Slughorn says. “To be honest, I didn't think you two would get along at all when I assigned you to work together.”

 

“I think you're making a lot of assumptions, sir.” Spektor says.

 

“My dear girl, I'm an old man—I know far more about these matters than you give me credit for.”

 

“Right.” Spektor says, thinking about what the first-years said in the bathroom.

 

“Oh come on now, you're just as bad as he is—you need to loosen up...” He says, rummaging in his robes and pulling out a flask. “Just filled this from a new bottle firewhisky, which I believe is your favorite...” She eyes it greedily. It is her favorite.

 

“Sir, you are a bad influence.” She says, taking the flask, smiling cheekily as she raises it to her lips. Slughorn laughs. Then, as the first drop of liquor touches her tongue, she collapses on the floor. Slughorn doesn't notice right away, as he’s watching the crowning of Penelope Fairchild as Yule Queen and Edward O’Connor as Yule King. Well, that’s a bit awkward.

 

“Dear god, Victoria! Are you alright? Say something!” He finally notices the young woman who had been standing beside him moments before is now unconscious on the floor and kneels down beside her, all the color drained from his face. Those standing near them back away quickly. He quickly collects her body from the ground and, before attracting any more attention, carries her from the Great Hall.

 

His feet fall heavy on the flagstone, echoing through the empty corridors all the way down into the dungeons. He sets her down in an armchair in his office, propping her legs up on a footstool, and then sets to rummaging through his desk. In a matter of seconds, he finds a beozar and slips it into her mouth. He hovers over his unconscious student, watching her intensely, looking for signs of breathing. When she finally does heave a breath he almost faints again. Her eyes open slowly, at first not recognizing where she is, but the picture soon comes into focus. She's in Slughorn's office. What the _hell_ is she doing there?

 

“Sir?” She says groggily.

 

“Thank god...I thought you were dead...” He says. His breathing is labored, his forehead glistens with sweat.

 

“Dead? Why would I be that?” She says, squinting. “What happened? Where's Tom?”

 

“My dear girl...” Slughorn paces in front of her, “What's the last thing you remember?”

 

“I was standing next to you...we were in the Great Hall...you handed me a flask...” She struggles to recall. He nods.

 

“It seems it was poisoned.” He says gravely. Spektor's eyes widen.

 

“You poisoned me?” Her voice is trembling with anger.

 

“No no I would never!” He says, shaking his hands in front of him, resuming his earlier place near the armchair. “That whole bottle was poisoned. I just tested it. Was given to me as a gift. Just got it, actually.” He stammers.

 

“Yeah? Who gave it to you?” She demands. Slughorn pauses. She notices his hands trembling, and little beads of sweat dripping down from his receding hairline.

 

“Albus Dumbledore.” He says quietly.

 

“Why would Professor Dumbledore want to poison you?” Hah yeah right, she thinks, a likely story.

 

“The strange thing is that I don't even really like firewhisky. I'm much more of a brandy man myself. I just keep it around because I know that...well...its your favorite...”

 

“And you think Dumbledore knows that?” Spektor scoffs. “You think Professor Dumbledore gave you the bottle because he knew you'd pour me a drink from it and you wouldn't have any yourself. You sound awfully paranoid, sir.” But it could be plausible? No, that’s absurd. Slughorn just tried to off her and he got cold feet and is trying to cover it up, albeit poorly.

 

“I don't know. No, of course not. I'd never accuse him of that. Albus Dumbledore is a great man.”

 

“That’s what people say.” Spektor says.

 

“I am so sorry, Victoria. I feel absolutely terrible, I meant you no harm—you must believe me.”

 

“Of course I believe you.” She lies, says, shaking the Dumbledore thought clear out of her head for the time being. Because there’s something else, something much more useful, has just occurred to her. Horace Slughorn is now in her debt, even if he did just try to poison her.

 

“I would offer you a beverage, but I have a feeling we won't be drinking together for a long time.” He says, trying to laugh off the heavy mood.

 

“No, thank you though. But you could answer a question for me...” She says.

 

“Sure, my dear. What's on your mind?”

 

“Well...” She begins, but is interrupted when the door of Slughorn's office opens. Tom Riddle strides in, making a beeline towards the young woman in the armchair.

 

“Are you alright? What happened? I saw you collapse.” The questions come rapid fire, like it's some sort of interrogation.

 

“Apparently I was poisoned.” She says. “Ask him, he knows all about it.” She jerks her thumb in Slughorn's direction. Riddle swivels to face the professor.

“Poisoned, sir?” He asks Slughorn, who nods. “How?”

 

“It's...uh...my fault, I'm afraid. I offered her a nip of tainted firewhisky. Of course I didn't _know_ it was tainted...” Slughorn watches nervously as a wave of anger washes over the young man in front of him. “But luckily I had a beozar handy...a potions master is always prepared, you see...”

 

“She could've died.” Riddle says coldly.

 

“Well...I'm deeply sorry, of course. It was an accident, you know, a complete accident. I would never ever harm Victoria—would never _dream_ of it.” Slughorn stammers, sweating again. Riddle sizes up the poor, shaken potions master. This is so strange. Why would he want to poison her? Everyone knows he favors her over practically every other one of his students, for some reason or another. “Please, sit down Tom. I don't think Victoria will mind—after all, she was just asking for you a moment ago.” Slughorn draws over another chair. Riddle glances over at Spektor, raising his eyebrows. She winks, blushing slightly. Slughorn puts a pot of tea on and brings it over. Neither student dares drink it first.

 

“So what was it you wanted to ask me, Victoria?” Slughorn says, after sipping his tea. Seeing as he neither chokes nor collapses in an unconscious heap on the floor, they decide it is safe to drink.

 

“Actually, it was something Tom wanted to know—I told him I'd ask you for him if I ran into you. But seeing as he's here right now, he might as well ask you himself...” She sneaks Riddle a look. He catches on. “See, he's doing some research on--”

 

“Soul extraction, sir.” Riddle says, cutting Spektor off. “I was reading about it in the library but I couldn't find any comprehensive information on actually _how_ that's done.”

 

“My dear boy, I don't know why you'd want to know anything about that. Dark stuff, that is. Messing with souls. I wouldn't advise it...” Slughorn doesn't even connect the incident with Spektor in his office a few weeks ago.

 

“I'd just like to better understand it, that's all. It sounds so...strange...” Riddle says, then takes a sip of tea.

 

“Well...If this is just for...you know...academic purposes...”

 

“Of course, sir.” Riddle says.

 

“You're right, it is rather strange...See, in order to extract a part of your soul, you first must split it...” Slughorn says, looking uncomfortable. “You know how that's done, I trust...”

 

“I believe that’s by…murder, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, that’s right. So...there is one method I'm aware of...in which a witch or wizard takes a piece of their soul and binds it to an item...which is then called a horcrux.”

 

“Why would someone want to do that?” Riddle asks. “Put a piece of their soul in something?”

 

“It's a form of protection—if your body happens to be destroyed, the piece of your soul inhabiting the object—the horcrux—is still alive...”

 

“Hmm. I suppose that would be...beneficial...” Riddle muses. He looks over at Spektor, who's listening intently.

 

“I hope that's a satisfactory answer. It's been a long day and I'm not really in the mood to carry on talking about such things.”

 

“Yes, thank you. We should probably get going...” He places his teacup on the floor and rises to his feet. “I'll escort Miss Spektor back to our common room.” He says, offering his hand to help her up. She's a bit unsteady on her feet, but other than that, nearly fully recovered.

 

“Good. Good.” Slughorn says, “Make sure you drink plenty of water, Victoria, and get a good night's rest.” Spektor nods silently, and allows herself to be lead out of the office by Riddle. As soon as they turn a corner she grabs the front of his robes, pulls him towards her, and kisses him. She breaks away immediately.

 

“Brilliant.” She whispers excitedly.

 

“I know I am.” He drawls.

 

“Shut up.” She says, then kisses him again. She's finally got something to go on. This will be a much more productive holiday than expected.


	14. I. The Six-Fingered Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family reunions aren't like this in the movies...

XIV.  
The Six-Fingered Gentleman  
[London | December 23, 1943]

 

* * *

 

The rain spits cold against V. Spektor's face as she struggles with the crummy umbrella she nicked from the coat closet. She's already beginning to regret venturing out this evening, but time is of the essence. Over the past few months her father has taken seriously ill, and the fact that his illness coincides with hers—although their symptoms are very different—has been concerning her more and more. It’s as though his entire being is fading—he's lost almost all of his memory, his voice is barely audible, and, strangely, V.'s own perception of her father is fading as well. Recalling memories of him from her childhood is becoming a struggle, and she swears she almost forgot his name just the day before.

 

She was at his bedside, lighting a candle so he could see his book of photographs. It soothes him, he says, to flip through the pages, look in on snippets of memories. For days has been staring at this one photograph in particular—a gnarled tree perched on the edge of a riverbank, a stone bridge in the foreground, slightly out of focus. There's a shadowed figure beside the tree, who V. guesses is a woman.

 

“Why d'you keep looking at that picture? It gives me the creeps.” V. says, trying to turn the page for him. He puts his hand down heavily on the page to stop her.

 

“Every night. She visits me. In my dreams.” He says, not looking up, but continuing to stare down at the book.

 

“Who is she?” V. asks.

 

“Your mother.” He says. “Lenora.” It's the first time she's ever heard her mother's name.

 

“Lenora.” V. repeats the name. It doesn’t feel like mother. “ What does she say? In your dream?”

 

“Nothing.” He holds up his hand, palm spread wide open. “She goes like this. But she's got six fingers...” He pauses. “You know, I always wanted to tell you. About Lenora. About…all that. But it would’ve been too much. You never would’ve grown to be the person you are today, with that kind of weight upon you.”

 

“I don’t see how it makes any difference.” V says curtly. “I had a right to know. To know the truth.”

 

“The truth is, you’re my daughter. And I love you very much.” Septimus Spektor says weakly, straining to look his daughter in the eye.

 

“What happened to her? To my mum?” V asks, removing the picture from the book and holding it up to look at it more closely.

 

“She died shortly after she gave birth to you.” Septimus says, turning the page of the photo book, moving on to other things. “She would’ve liked you though. You remind me a lot of her.”

 

“What was she like?” V sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the photograph.

 

“Curious, brilliant, and, if I may say, hauntingly beautiful.” Septimus says, a smile lighting up his pale, heavily wrinkled face. “It’s a shame, that there’s such a…rift…between them and us. I never noticed much of a difference…”

 

“But what about _me_ , dad? What does that make _me_?” She says, looking at her father. “I’m not one of them. But I’m not one of you either.”

 

“I…I can’t…” A great shadow passes over him. “You should…speak to…” He reaches for the parchment and quill he keeps on his bedside, for writing down brilliant thoughts that occur to him in his dreams. “Go here. He can tell you. I…I can’t…” He folds the piece of parchment and presses it into her hand.

 

“Dad?” She pauses as she moves to leave the room. He looks up at her. “Did you love my mum?”

 

“Yes. Very much so.” He says solemnly.

 

“And…do you love Victoria?”

 

“In a different way, yes.” He says, turning back to his book.

 

“I’ll…leave you to it, then.” She goes to exit again, but stops at the door when she realizes she still has the photograph in her hand. She walks back over to hand it to him, but he shakes his head.

 

“You keep it.” He says. “I don’t need it anymore.” V smiles sadly at her father and leaves, shutting the door quietly behind her.

 

∆         ∆         ∆

  

She's got the umbrella up now, and she's walking quickly down an empty cobblestone street in Lambeth, lamps flickering in the dense gloom. This is the first time she’s ever been south of the Thames, she thinks, as she tries to get her bearings. She steps in a puddle and the icy water floods into her black leather boots, their thin soles soaking up the moisture like parchment. Almost there. Just around the corner. And she comes to a large steel gate, behind which an austere brick building looms. She skirts the fence, around to the side, looks both ways, counts to three in her mind, and disappears—or so it seems. Where she had been standing, a large black snake is now coiled. She slithers effortlessly through a gap in the iron fence and into the small dirt lot behind the building that should be a garden. Now to find the right window... There are only a handful of windows still illuminated. She tries to catch glimpses of their inhabitants, but no luck. _Look out the window_. She hisses as loud as she can manage. _Over here. Look over here_. Her beady eyes catch sight of a second-floor window being opened farther, and a dark-haired boy peering out, scanning the dark yard. He shakes his head and walks away from the window. Gotcha.

 

Back in human form now, she picks up a small rock and throws it at the window. It clatters noisily off the glass, drawing the boy back within view. This time he sees her, standing in the darkness below, looking up at him. She motions for him to come down with a wave of her hand. He doesn't move. She repeats the hand gesture more forcefully. He disappears for a moment, then emerges from the window, and slides effortlessly down the drainpipe.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He says, his feet thudding on the damp ground. “Miss me that much, do you? It's only been a few days...” He drawls sarcastically.

 

“I need you to come with me.” She says, surveying with mild amusement the Heir of Slytherin dressed in a grubby grey muggle pea coat and practically threadbare gloves.

 

“It's the middle of the night...” Is he scowling or smiling? It's difficult to tell.

 

“It's urgent.” She says, pulling the photograph out of her pocket. “And, well...I'd feel better if you came with me. It would be good to have some backup in case things get...weird...”

 

“What exactly are you about to do?” He cocks an eyebrow.

 

 

“I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important.” She says. He knows that's true. And he's really quite happy she's just shown up out of the blue—although they'd only been on holiday a few days he'd already begun to miss her. Not that he's going to tell her that.

 

“So where are we going?” he asks.

 

“It's not far from here. C'mon.”

 

∆         ∆         ∆

  

They're winding through the streets now, huddled under the umbrella, squinting at street signs, trying to keep the parchment from getting wet as they keep glancing at the address. After a quarter of an hour, they find themselves in front of a large tenement near the docks, and push back the arched door to enter it's cavernous foyer. The interior smells of damp decay, the lighting is poor, and the sounds of hundreds of tenants echo off the chipping plaster walls.

 

“Do you actually know this person?” Riddle asks as they descend the set of stairs leading to the basement. The stairs are rickety and he's about to put his hand on the bannister but immediately decides against it, as it's coated in decades worth of grime. She must not have heard him. God only knows what he's walking into. Not that he's worried. He hangs a few steps behind her, watching her move towards the red door at the end of the dimly lit hallway. Her boots squelch with each step, raindrops still cling to her long woolen coat. Her hair's all caught up in her scarf and he feels compelled to fix it for her, but stops himself. They've both reached the door now, and Spektor knocks three times. They wait impatiently, water dripping irritatingly from the pipes, faulty fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead.

 

“Guess they're not home.” She turns her back to the door and looks up at Riddle, who's watching it intently. He nods his head, motioning with his eyes for her to turn back around. The door had opened just a crack.

 

“Hello?” She ventures, “I'm...uh...Victoria Spektor. My father, Septimus, sent me to speak with you...” The door opens fully now, revealing a short, stocky gentleman in a white three-piece suit and red bow-tie. His hair is white as well, and slicked back with a whole tub's-worth of pomade. This gentleman appraises the two scruffy-looking teenagers with a bemused expression.

 

“Victoria Spektor. Hmm well...Your time's just about up, then, isn't it? Why don't you come in...” He moves aside, extending his arm into the dark interior in what he intends as a welcoming gesture. Once Spektor crosses the threshold, the gentleman moves to block Riddle's entrance.

 

“And who's this?” He asks as if he already knows.

 

“Tom Riddle, sir.”

 

“A human?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Now that’s a question Tom’s never been asked before…

 

“Of course you are. Well, I can already see where this is going...Come on in then. Don't touch anything.” The gentleman barks, hurrying him inside and pulling the door shut. Spektor's already wandered into the sitting room, a cramped space draped in red velvet. A fire's burning in the small brick fireplace, and a cigar is smoldering in an ashtray near a wingback armchair. Somewhere in the room a jazz record is playing, but she can't seem to find the phonograph. She's studying the titles on the bookshelf when Riddle and the gentleman enter. The gentleman strides over to the armchair and resumes his position, perching the cigar between his lips and taking a long drag. Riddle sits down on the couch opposite the fireplace, and a moment later Spektor joins him.

 

“To what do I owe the...pleasure....of your company, Miss Spektor?” The gentleman asks, exhaling a cloud of smoke directly into her face. She notices his hands for the first time.

 

“I don't really know...Why would my father tell me to come speak with you?” She asks the six-fingered gentleman.

 

“Hmmmm I would expect that has something to do with your age most likely. You're just about eighteen, am I right?”

 

“I'll be eighteen next month.” She nods.

 

“And you've been feeling quite ill of late, haven't you. Like you're… _losing your mind_ , perhaps...”

 

“She's not mad.” Riddle says.

 

“Quiet, boy. Don't speak about things you know nothing of.” The six-fingered gentleman says, puffing his cigar, unsettlingly casual.

 

“You said to me that my ‘time's just about up’...” She says, her voice as tense as her muscles.

 

“Clever girl. Well, I'm sorry to say, but it looks like next month I'll be attending your execution.” The six-fingered gentleman frowns, but there is no sadness behind it. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Spektor feels faint. Riddle unconsciously reaches for her hand, which he holds for just a second before pulling away.

 

“And why am I going to be... _executed_?” Spektor asks as calmly as possible.

 

“When half-breeds—no offense—reach the age of eighteen, they must be euthanized. You see, you are two selves in one, completely at odds with yourself. You are a soulless being with a soul. You can imagine the damage that does to one's mind and body. The consequences are unspeakable, and, unfortunately, unavoidable. Once you reach maturity, you will go mad, and you will be come a danger to society.”

 

“What if I got rid of my soul?”

 

“You can't just throw your soul away, girl! You're half-human. Your mind would still crumble. It won't do you any good to mess with that sort of thing. A fool's quest.” The six-fingered gentleman says this with a laugh that puts Riddle on the edge of his seat. Spektor, on the other hand, sinks back into the plush fabric of the sofa, running over every possible solution in her mind.

 

“You're a devil, aren't you?” She asks. The six-fingered gentleman nods, flashing her a charming smile. “What do you have against half-breeds, then? Why are you all so fanatical about keeping humans and devils separate?” The six-fingered gentleman erupts in a hearty laugh.

 

“Are you serious, girl? Have I not just explained to you what happens to half-breeds if allowed to live? We are fundamentally incompatible with the human race. Always have been. Always will be. Any devil tainted by intimate human contact is sentenced to death, and that's that. It has been so for thousands of years. Since the beginning of Time itself.”

 

“So my mother was...”

 

“Executed. Soon after your birth.”

 

“Why let me live then? Why not kill me as soon as I was born?”

 

“We have our reasons.” The six-fingered gentleman replaces his cigar in his ashtray and rises from his armchair. The record has come to an end. The room is silent save for the crackling of the fire. He disappears for a moment to flip the record, returns with a bottle of sherry, and pours three glasses. He hands one to Spektor, and then to Riddle, locking eyes with the young man for an uncomfortably long time before withdrawing to his armchair once more. Riddle goes to sip his drink, but the liquid inside remains stationary. He tries swirling it around the glass but it's solid. Spektor looks at him quizzically, sipping her sherry, which is behaving normally. He turns his glass upside down to illustrate what's wrong and the drink dumps onto his lap. Fucking trickster. He bites his tongue.

 

“If devils hate half-breeds, and humans for that matter, so much—why did you invite us into your home?” Spektor asks, sipping the drink greedily. The six-fingered gentleman narrows his eyes at her.

 

“Your father was my business partner. When he became close friends with Lenora...well, I was very upset. But it seemed harmless...I didn't pay it any mind—I certainly didn't think she'd be so _foolish_ about her affections, though...”

 

“Was Lenora...” Spektor begins.

 

“My daughter.” The six-fingered gentleman finishes.

 

“That means...you're my...”

 

“Grandfather. Yes.” The six-fingered gentleman says. There's nothing warm and fuzzy about this moment. “It's too bad, really. I was hoping to never meet you. Now that I know who you are, it'll be all the more unpleasant to watch you die.”

 

“You can help her.” Riddle orders.

 

“Help her? Haven't you been paying attention, boy? What do you expect me to do? I told you the consequences are unavoidable. Give her a few months and she'll be entirely unrecognizable.”

 

“So you've never known of a...half-breed...to alter their fate?” Riddle asks.

 

“There was one. A very long time ago. But he was taken care of eventually.” The six-fingered gentleman muses, lacing his fingers together and setting them on his lap. “He was also a wizard, interestingly enough. And a cheater. We don't take kindly to cheaters.”

 

The tension's so thick in this small basement room you could slice it with a knife. As Spektor looks around, she has the uncanny sensation that the walls are wrong. The noodley saxophone solo is setting her teeth on edge. She reaches for Riddle's hand—it's as sweaty as hers. He shoots her a lets-get-the-hell-out-of-here look. The six-fingered gentleman has risen from his chair again, and is retrieving the bottle of sherry from the sideboard.

 

“Can I interest you in another...?” He offers. Riddle stands up, yanking Spektor up with him.

 

“We should get going. It's late...” Riddle says stiffly.

 

“No, please. _Stay. I insist_...” The six-fingered gentleman says, his voice as oily as his hair. He places a hand on Riddle's shoulder, causing the young man to flinch.

 

“It was very nice to meet you...” Spektor says, putting on an extremely fake smile.

 

“I wish I could say the same.” The six-fingered gentleman says, smiling wide. “Forgive me for not showing you the way out. You'll figure it out, I'm sure.” He says, and returns to his armchair and cigar. Riddle leads Spektor out into the hallway. Suddenly everything looks flipped, as though they are in a mirror.

 

“The walls are wrong.” Spektor says. The red curtains billow in an absent breeze. She halts, pulling Riddle close. “The walls are wrong.” She repeats, slightly horrified.

 

“No they're not. The door's over...here--” He says, pulling her towards what he remembers was a door. There's a red curtain there, which he pushes aside to reveal another hallway, much like the one they'd just walked down. “Shit.” He mutters, a mild panic setting in.

 

“What about this way?” She pulls Riddle down the hall in the opposite direction. He stumbles over his feet as she drags him like a rag doll. The hallway is elongating. She pushes through the wall to their right and they both tumble into an empty room. Although they are able to stand, the floor appears to be slanted at a steep angle. Some sort of optical illusion. More red curtains. They hear that jazz record tinkling from somewhere in the distance. Something scuttles across the floor, causing Spektor to jump. She lands on Riddle's foot.

 

“Ow! What the bloody hell was that?” He takes out his wand to better illuminate the space. Whatever it was is gone now. He looks down at the young woman beside him. She's shaking.

 

“Please. Tom. Get me out of here.” She says, trying to suppress the fear in here voice.

 

“We both still have the trace on us...but what do you think the chances are that anyone will care if we disapparate out of here...”

 

“I've never disapparated before...”

 

“Then hold on.” He says, pulling her close. She wraps both arms around him and in a crack of light they're gone.


End file.
